


Trials and Tribulations of the Oathkeeper

by DeadlyMaelstrom711



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Drama & Romance, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Incest, M/M, Nobility, Sibling Incest, What-If
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2019-06-27 05:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 126
Words: 482,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15679026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadlyMaelstrom711/pseuds/DeadlyMaelstrom711
Summary: Daveth Baratheon is the eldest son of King Robert Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister, the only one of four children she actually bore her lawful husband. A natural-born prodigy at a young age, his keen intellect and swordsmanship are ranked as one of the best in Westeros. Known far and wide throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his famous reputation as "the Oathkeeper", how will the Young Stag's presence affect the Game of Thrones?





	1. The Oathkeeper

**Author's Note:**

> Ever wondered what might have occurred if Robert and Cersei's trueborn son had actually lived? What might have changed? This is my first addition regarding the Game of Thrones; however this will follow the HBO TV series adaption instead of the A Song of Ice and Fire novels. Also some feedback will be required from viewers in regards to other characters so I don't break them. If I do make a mistake take it easy on me, alright?

* * *

**YEAR 298 AC**

**King's Landing, capital of the Seven Kingdoms...**

* * *

Bells ring out in the capital city of King’s Landing. Lord Jon Arryn of the Eyrie, Warden of the East and Hand of the King, had unexpectedly passed away. As his body lay in the throne room, the Silent Sisters prepare his body for burial. Elsewhere, in the balcony where the noble ladies of the court stand, Queen Cersei of House Lannister is seen contemplating as she leans against the edge of the railing, taking a moment to observe Lord Arryn’s corpse.

The sound of someone’s approaching footsteps break her concentration. The person in question is revealed to be her twin brother, Ser Jaime Lannister. One of the most skilled swordsmen in all of Westeros, Jaime was appointed as the youngest member of the Kingsguard at age 15 to the last of the Targaryen kings, Aerys the Second of His Name. Unfortunately, he gained an infamous reputation throughout the Seven Kingdoms as “Kingslayer” (much to his irritation) for stabbing King Aerys in the back and killing him at the foot of the Iron Throne itself, thereby breaking his sworn vows to protect him.

As Jaime leans against the edge, he looks to counsel his twin sister. “As your brother, I feel it’s my duty to warn you: You worry too much. It’s starting to show.”

“And you never worry about anything,” Cersei responds. “When we were 7, you jumped off the cliffs at Casterly Rock. A 100-foot drop into the water. And you were never afraid.”

“There was nothing to be afraid of until you told father,” Jaime said humorously before deepening his tone of voice to imitate their father. “‘We’re Lannisters. And Lannisters don’t act like fools.’”

Cersei smiles before taking another look at Jon Arryn.

“What if Jon Arryn told someone?” she asks.

“But who would he tell?” says Jaime.

“My husband,” Cersei answers despondently.

Jaime merely shrugged his shoulders. “If he told the king, both our heads would be skewered on the city gates by now. Whatever Jon Arryn knew or didn’t know, it died with him. And Robert will choose a new Hand of the King, someone to do his job while he’s off fucking boars and hunting whores. Or is it the other way around? And life will go on.”

“You should be Hand of the King,” Cersei offers.

“That’s an honor I can do without,” Jaime shakes his head. “Their days are too long, their lives are too short.”

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

* * *

In his chambers stood the Crown Prince and heir to the Iron Throne, Daveth Baratheon.

He had been busy packing whatever necessities are required for the journey to Winterfell in the North, expecting the climate to be rather cold. Standing in front of a mirror to properly tuck his royal attire, He didn’t let the expression on his face to show, but deep down Daveth still had a hard time coping with Jon Arryn’s death; the Lord of the Eyrie was like a second grandfather to him. Wise and prudent, Jon essentially tutored Daveth on how to rule and often presided over Small Council meetings together with Lord Arryn since his own father, King Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, had no particular interest in ruling his kingdom and was more than happy to pass on the responsibilities to Lord Arryn and his eldest son despite the youth’s age. Since then, popular rumors began to circulate that it was Daveth who really ruled the Seven Kingdoms in practice if not in name.

A true protégé of his maternal grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister, Daveth appeared to possess an extreme level of intellect and cunning, allowing him to outmaneuver his political rivals such as Petyr Baelish and even his own mother Cersei Lannister with relative ease. At an incredibly fast pace, Daveth had demonstrated such great promise as a highly capable administrator and skilled warrior in his own right with a reputation for achieving efficient yet effective results in a short amount of time without reneging his word. As such, he is known throughout Westeros as the “Oathkeeper.” Daveth cared little about nicknames or what other people thought of him.

Unfortunately his fame and reputation caused a tense rift to develop between him and his father King Robert and the two became estranged. The royal court would soon divided into two rival factions between those who supported the Prince and had the good of the realm in mind and opportunistic sycophants who supported the King who felt increasingly threatened by his son’s rapidly growing power and influence.

His thoughts were broken by a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Daveth answers.

The door opens and in steps in Bernadette, a handmaiden to Daveth’s mother Queen Cersei. She politely bows her head.

“Forgive my intrusion, my Prince. But the Queen has requested your presence at the gates.”

Daveth nods in acknowledgment. “Very well. Tell her I am on my way.”

Bernadette bows once more and leaves to inform Cersei. Daveth grabs his belongings and inhales sharply through his nostrils.

_'And so it begins,'_ he thought.  _'The search for a new Hand.’_

* * *

**At the city gates...**

* * *

Upon exiting the city gates, soldiers holding the Baratheon and Lannister sigils accompanied the carriage carrying most of the royal family, with the exception of King Robert and Prince Daveth – who instead chose to ride up front mounted on their horses. The royal party had long departed for the long march to the North on the Kingsroad.

“This would’ve been going a lot faster if we didn’t have any certain baggage slowing us down!” Robert gruffly complained.

“Come now, father, I’m sure you wouldn’t even consider leaving our family behind, would you? We have a long road ahead of us, so certainly it wouldn’t hurt to at least maintain a steady pace so the others can keep up.”

“Bah! Seven Hells, sometimes you’re just like your mother! The sooner we get there, the sooner I’ll have food and wine in my belly!”

Daveth shook his head in annoyance. Although a loyal, dutiful and respectful son, Daveth was greatly irritated by his father’s penchant for drinking and sleeping with any pretty woman whenever he could. It was no secret that Daveth hated Robert for emotionally (sometimes physically) abusing Cersei and his unapologetic marital infidelities. He knew how poorly his father treated his mother and how unhappy their marriage was. Daveth learned the difference between right and wrong as he was often exposed to heated arguments and occasional beatings no matter how hard Cersei tried to hide it from him; since then, Daveth swore to be a different kind of king and vowed not to be like a man Robert was.

His relationship with his mother, on the other hand, was sometimes complex. At times Cersei adored Daveth and held him close, other times Cersei would treat him coolly and once in a while scowled at him without warning – something Daveth felt was because of how his very presence reminded Cersei of her failed, unhappy marriage.

Joffrey, his younger brother and second in line to the Iron Throne after him, was an arrogant, sadistic fop with a massive sense of entitlement. Everyone in King’s Landing knew how they hated each other for many years – in his eyes, Daveth was everything that Joffrey was not and vastly superior: Daveth was respected by the other lords and well-loved by his subjects, fiercely intelligent, a brilliant administrator and a powerful warrior – having been trained by their uncle Jaime Lannister and Ser Barristan Selmy, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. Joffrey had none of Daveth’s traits and was only skilled with a crossbow; Joffrey was clearly jealous of and envied his older brother’s successes.

On the other hand, his younger siblings, Myrcella and Tommen, idolized Daveth. He cared deeply about them (and vice-versa) and helped his mother raise them ever since they were born. He took care of them and played with them whenever he could. Whenever he had to tend to royal functions outside of King’s Landing or negotiate trade deals for extended periods of time, the two younger blonde-haired children were always the first ones to greet Daveth – always happy to see their big brother.

He could say that he’s on well enough terms with his paternal uncles, Lords Stannis and Renly Baratheon – even though they saw each other on a daily basis. Renly at times gave Daveth a headache, with Stannis noticing the prince takes his duties more seriously than any of his brothers.

From his mother’s side of House Lannister, Daveth respects his uncles Jaime and Tyrion. Jaime helped teach Daveth how to use a sword and was left aghast with his nephew’s performance in a tournament held in King’s Landing last year. When Daveth received his knighthood on his sixteenth nameday, his father King Robert was insistent on staging a tournament (the first and perhaps only time the Stag King was proud of his son). The joust had ended and all that remained was the melee. The match between Daveth and Ser Jaime lasted almost an hour and, albeit both competitors were left utterly exhausted after matching each other blow-for-blow, the Young Stag stunned all in attendance by defeating the Golden Lion despite the youth’s lack of experience. Daveth could’ve sworn he’d wounded Jaime’s pride that day, though he couldn’t really tell.

Tyrion was more approachable and, despite his dwarfism, Daveth could tell there was potential in his uncle where he could further hone his talents – provided he’d stop his lewdness. Even so, Daveth did appreciate the history books Tyrion gave him such as The History of the Greater and the Lesser Houses and Lives of Four Kings – as they kept his wits sharp.

His grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister, was someone even Daveth had to take seriously and always headed the Old Lion’s counsel. The Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West commanded a very powerful presence and easily intimidated those around him. In their encounter, Tywin spoke with his grandson (albeit it felt like an interrogation with the way the Old Lion was looking at him) and Daveth was sure to answer whatever questions his grandfather hurled at him. When their visit to Casterly Rock was over, to his surprise, King Robert and Queen Cersei received a message from Lord Tywin’s brother Ser Kevan Lannister that Tywin was impressed with the boy’s vast knowledge and sought to educate him.

Daveth’s thoughts were interrupted when his father spoke again.

“Boy! Did you not hear a word I’ve said?” Robert demanded.

“Yes, father,” Daveth answered.

“Good. Because I tire of all this riding. Go on and scout ahead and inform me of how what you find. I’d like to know much further Winterfell is.”

Daveth nodded and galloped on his horse to the nearest hill. Once at the top, he took a moment to scout the area. After a long ten minutes, Daveth spotted faint but light snow on the horizon. They’ve been on the Kingsroad for more than a month now, and it seems their primary destination was within sight. Once calculating the distance and the time it would take to arrive, Daveth hurried on back to King Robert.

“Well?” he asked.

“Given the current pace and the depths of the terrain, we should be able to arrive at Winterfell within a fortnight.”

“Good. At least you’re good for something.”

Daveth gritted his teeth at his father’s words, but held his tongue.

“I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise. The North is, after all, the largest region in all of the Seven Kingdoms in Westeros. Ride 200 miles to the west, you’re still in the North. 10 miles to east, you’re still in the North. 50 miles to the south, you’re still in the North. It’s enough to fit in the other six kingdoms.”

Robert nodded. “Aye, though must has changed the last time I saw it. But hopefully not too much. Ned’ll probably be as fast given how long it’s been since we met.”

Daveth raised his eyebrows. _'Lord Eddard Stark? So… you intend to name him as Lord Arryn’s replacement?’_

Robert took notice. “What, boy? You disapprove?”

Daveth shook his head and came up with a clever retort. “Not at all. It’s just… it’s been more than nine years since we last set foot in Winterfell, father. Kind of leaves one feeling sentimental, you know?”

“That it does,” Robert nodded in agreement. “I’m only doing this because Ned’s the last friend in this world I trust. The only one left.”

“Do you think he’ll accept?” Daveth asks.

“He will. Besides, I’m the king. And I get whatever I want. Now come on, let’s get moving.”

As the two of them began to resume their march, Daveth had been contemplating of what kind of reunion he’d expect in Winterfell. From what he remembers, Daveth seemed to recall his father and Ned Stark as having been childhood friends – like his was with Ned’s eldest son and heir, Robb. And Daveth only knew what Robert’s words meant when he said that; surely there was bound to be trouble on the horizon and there were few allies left in the capital he could turn to for help. Still, as heir to the throne Daveth will continue to play his part… for the greater good.


	2. Welcome to Winterfell

* * *

**At the Godswood...**

* * *

Lady Catelyn Stark, born as the eldest daughter of Lord Hoster of House Tully, makes her way through the Godswood to find her husband, Lord Eddard “Ned” Stark – Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North – polishing his family’s ancestral Valyrian steel sword Ice, having recently beheaded a deserter from the Night’s Watch: Will.

The Night’s Watch was an organization founded 8,000 years ago in aftermath of the Long Night to guard the realms of men from what lies beyond the Wall, a colossal fortification 300 miles along the northern border and over 700 feet tall made of solid ice, such as Wildlings (aka the Free Folk) and White Walkers should they ever return. According to the legend, the Wall was supposedly constructed with the use of magic and mundane means with the aid of the Children of the Forest – a race of non-humans who were reportedly the original inhabitants of Westeros before the arrival of the First Men and the Andal invaders.

Members of the Night’s Watch upon recruitment would swear an oath of duty that prohibits marriage, family, and land ownership. Recruits renounce all past allegiances and birthrights. Joining the Watch provides absolution for past crimes and immunity from further punishment. Brothers start with a clean slate and can rise within the ranks whatever their origins. Once the Night’s Watch was highly regarded and filled with volunteers from noble houses, now the Watch consisted of only 1,000 men (not enough to operate the other castles on the Wall) and its ranks were filled with criminals avoiding punishment, nobles avoiding scandal, orphans and other social outcasts.

Before his execution, Will gave a detailed report of what he had seen before recklessly deserting in terror: undead beings with eyes glowing blue brutally killed his companions, the White Walkers have returned.

Ned sat as he continued polishing ice, cleaning off the blood as he reflected on Will’s words. He still remained unsure, but deep down part of him believed the lad.

“All these years and I still feel like an outsider when I come here,” his wife admitted, breaking Ned’s thoughts.

“You have five northern children. You’re not an outsider,” Ned reassured her.

“I wonder if the Old Gods agree.”

Ned smiled. “It’s your gods with all the rules.” His smile soon ceased as soon as he saw how Catelyn shifted from contemplating to consoling.

“I am so sorry, my love,” Catelyn professed.

“Tell me,” Ned beseeched, wanting to know what was troubling his wife.

“There was a raven from King’s Landing. Jon Arryn is dead. A fever took him,” Catelyn answered truthfully.

Ned felt as if he just took a punch in the gut as he found himself unable to speak. Jon Arryn had fostered both him and his best friend Robert Baratheon at the Eyrie when he was a child. Both thought fondly of Lord Arryn and Arryn in turn treated the younger Stark and Baratheon as his own children. Those were fond memories. Dead? How can it be?

“I know he was like a father to you,” Catelyn continued.

Ned took a moment to regain his composure. “Your sister, and the boy…?”

During the rebellion 17 years ago, Jon Arryn cemented an alliance with House Tully of the Riverlands by marrying Lord Hoster’s second daughter Lysa whilst Eddard married Lysa’s older sister Catelyn after his older brother Brandon was executed along with their father Rickard during the Mad King’s reign. Catelyn was originally betrothed to marry Brandon, but was wed to Eddard when word arrived detailing Brandon’s death.

When the war was brought to an end, Jon Arryn welcomed the birth of his first and only child almost 10 years ago – Robin. One day the boy would’ve inherited Jon’s lands and titles, but now it seems the boy will already do so.

“They both have their health. Gods be good,” Catelyn answered thankfully. She then changed her tone. “The raven brought more news. The King rides for Winterfell. With the Queen and all the rest of them.”

Ned studied his wife’s words, tactfully coming to a decisive conclusion. “If he’s coming this far North, then that means there’s only one thing he’s after.”

Catelyn gently placed her hand onto of Ned’s. “You can always say no, Ned.”

Ned ponders considering his wife’s advice, feeling his place is at Winterfell.

* * *

In the Great Hall of Winterfell, preparations are being prepared for a great banquet in anticipation of the royal family’s arrival. Catelyn was adamant that everything he set properly and tidy for her honored guests.

“We need plenty of candles for Lord Tyrion’s chamber. I’m told he reads all night,” she fussed.

“I’m told he drinks all night,” answers Luwin, an elderly maester in service to the Starks.

“How much could he possibly drink?” Catelyn sighs in exasperation. “A man of his… stature.”

“We’ve brought up eight barrels of ale from the cellar,” Maester Luwin replies. “Perhaps we’ll find out.”

Catelyn simply nods. “In any case, candles.”

While the matriarch of House Stark oversees the banquet and other necessities, her eldest child Robb Stark along with his bastard half-brother Jon Snow and their father’s ward Theon Greyjoy get themselves trimmed.

“Why is your mother so dead-set on us getting pretty for the King?” asks Jon.

“It’s for the Queen, I bet,” Theon replies. “I hear she’s a sleek bit of mink.”

“Last I heard Daveth’s made quite the name for himself these past nine years,” Robb says as he gets finished shaving. “His brother, on the other hand, not so much. I hear Prince Joffrey is a right royal prick.”

Theon grins. “What’d you expect? Daveth’s the Crown Prince, and by far the most talented. Think of all those southern girls he gets to stab with his right royal prick.”

Robb shakes his head. “No, Daveth’s not like that. At least, I certainly hope not.” As he’s done, he grabs a towel to wipe his face. “Go on, Tommy, shave Jon good. He’s never met a girl he likes better than his own hair.”

Jon rolls his eyes whilst Theon and Robb laughs at the joke.

* * *

Atop the castle’s towers, Brandon “Bran” Stark, the second son and fourth child named after his paternal uncle, continues his adventurous climbing from perch to perch as he notices the royal procession approaching Winterfell. The 10-year old boy then nimbly begins his decent down to tell everyone the news.

Elsewhere, Catelyn and Maester Luwin walk into the courtyard, passing by Bran’s rapidly-growing direwolf pup Summer. Summer was adopted with the rest of his siblings Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria and Shaggydog when Eddard Stark and his entourage came upon the pups and their deceased mother. At the request of Jon Snow, the pups were spared and each Stark child adopted one as their own.

“Gods, but they grow fast,” she exclaims in astonishment before seeing Bran climbing the walls. “Brandon!”

“I saw the king!” he says excitedly as he makes his way onto the ground. “He’s got hundreds of people!”

Catelyn bends down to look at her son in the eyes. “How many times have I told you: No more climbing!” she scolds.

Bran didn’t seem to care. “But he’s coming right now! Down our road!”

“I want you to promise me,” she says firmly again, “No more climbing.”

Bran’s excitement slowly fades away as his mother continued to scold him, looking down at his feet before returning to meet Catelyn’s gaze. “I promise.”

Seemingly convinced, Catelyn stands up. “Do you know what?” she asks.

“What?” Bran asks, appearing rather confused.

“You always look at your feet before you lie,” Catelyn points out. Bran smiles and lets out a small giggle. “Run and find your father. Tell him the king is close.”

Bran obeys and runs off, with Summer in tow.

* * *

As the king’s horses and men make their grand entrance into Winterfell, a little girl wearing a helm and cloak pushes her way into a tall wagon to get a much closer look. The girl’s name is Arya Stark, the youngest daughter and third child of Eddard Stark and Catelyn. Unlike her older, more beautiful sister Sansa, Arya is considered a tomboy who rejects the notion that she must become a lady and marry for influence and power. Instead, she believes that she can forge her own destiny. She is fascinated by warfare and training in the use of arms, and is bored by embroidery and other “lady-like” pursuits.

In attendance stood the entire Stark family along with their household retainers. From left to right stood: Bran, Sansa, Robb, Eddard, Catelyn and Rickon (the youngest at age 6). All that was missing was Arya herself. Catelyn turned her head in every direction looking for her daughter, but couldn’t see her.

“Where’s Arya?” Catelyn asks before turning to her eldest daughter. “Sansa, where’s your sister?”

Sansa shrugged her shoulders, implying she too didn’t know where Arya was at.

As more riders arrive holding their banners, Arya ran in the middle of the front to get to the receiving line – only for Ned to stop her in her tracks.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey,” Ned says as he looks at Arya. “What are you doing with that on?”

He removes Arya’s helm as she looks disappointed before scooting over towards Bran, not noticing Jon or Theon cracking a smile in amusement.

“Move!” Arya barks at Bran as she begins to rudely push him aside.

The royal procession rides up, making their presence known. The first to approach was Daveth and Joffrey, along with Joffrey’s personal bodyguard Sandor Clegane (who wears a helmet in the shape of a menacing looking hound). Sansa smiles at Daveth, with Robb nodding at his old friend whilst silently glaring at Joffrey. The coach carrying their mother Queen Cersei along with their sister Princess Myrcella and youngest brother Prince Tommen lumbers in after them, followed by King Robert Baratheon who is accompanied by his Kingsguard knights. All in the assembly knelt in acknowledgement of the king’s present.

Eddard looks up to catch a glimpse and is shacked at the sight of his old friend, now fat and red-faced. King Robert motions for a servant to get his stool, taking two or three tries to dismount his horse before approaching the Stark family. Motioning his fingers, Robert signals for all to rise.

“Your Grace,” Ned greets respectfully.

“You’ve got fat,” Robert flatly says in front of everyone.

Everyone was quiet as a crypt, what was going on? Did they offend King Robert? If so, what did they do? No one said a word. Eddard, on the other hand, gives Robert a 'What about you?' look. The silence was broken when Robert burst out into raucous laughter as Ned laughed himself before the old friends warmly embraced each other, bringing about a sigh of relief from some in attendance and they soon caught on that the king was only joking.

“Cat!” King Robert greeted as he pulled Catelyn in a big hug like a long lost sister.

“Your Grace,” Catelyn greeted.

Robert patted their youngest Rickon’s head before redirecting his attention towards Eddard.

“Nine years,” he said. “Why haven’t I seen you? Where the hell have you been?”

“Guarding the North for you, Your Grace. Winterfell is yours.” Ned answers.

Queen Cersei along with her other children descend from the coach and the Golden Lioness makes her way towards the Stark household.

“Where’s the Imp?” Arya asks.

“Will you shut up?” Sansa snaps quietly.

Daveth took notice as well.  _‘Don’t tell me he’s at where I think is again…’_  he thought to himself. “The Imp” was people called his uncle Tyrion Lannister for his size.

Robert ignored this and took a look at the rest of the Starks. “Who do we have here? You must be Robb.”

“I am, Your Grace,” Robb answers respectfully as he shakes the king’s hand.

“My, you’re a pretty one,” Robert says to Sansa, who smiled at the king’s compliment. He froze and stared at Arya for a moment. “Your name is?”

“Arya,” she answers.

Robert moved onto Bran. “Ooh! Show us your muscles,” he said. Bran immediately did so with a smile on his face and flexed his arm. Robert chuckles again, “You’ll be a soldier!”

Arya takes a look at one of the Kingsguard, one in particular with blonde hair.

“That’s Jaime Lannister, the Queen’s twin brother,” Arya points out.

“Would you please shut up,” Sansa exasperates again.

Queen Cersei makes her appearance to the Starks, holding out her palm. Eddard gently takes her palm and kisses her ring.

“My Queen,” Ned acknowledges, which Cersei responds in a smile purely for formality.

“My Queen,” Catelyn acknowledges as she bows courteously.

And just like that, the politeness was broken when Robert spoke again. “Take me to your crypt. I want to pay my respects.”

Daveth noticed his mother became visibly irritated and annoyed.

“We’ve been riding for a month, my love,” Cersei protested. “Surely the dead can wait.”

“Ned!” Robert ordered, completely ignoring his wife and giving her a hard look.

Cersei stares back at Robert, uncowed. Finally Robert turns and walks away. Eddard gives an apologetic bow to the Queen before leading Robert to one of Winterfell’s old towers. Daveth dismounted, hoping to break the silence and awkwardness.

“Lady Catelyn, it’s a pleasure to see you again after quite some time,” he greeted.

Catelyn smiled as she hugged him. “And to you, my Prince. You’re looking well.”

Daveth complimented the Stark matriarch before looking at Robb.

“My friend,” Daveth calmly acknowledged.

“Welcome back to Winterfell, Prince Daveth,” Robb greeted in a friendly manner.

Like their fathers, both Robb Stark and Daveth Baratheon have been childhood friends during their family’s first visit to Winterfell before the Greyjoy Rebellion broke out. Much of the mystery surrounding what had happened to the Prince at Lannisport remained unspoken, but Robb was among the few to notice a change in Daveth’s behavior. He opted not to approach Daveth about it out of respect. Still feeling humiliated in front of everyone, Cersei walks back to her twin brother Jaime.

“Where is our brother?” she says bitterly. “Go find the little beast.”

* * *

Daveth took a moment to bask in Winterfell’s surroundings as he walked around the castle. Some things changed yet remained the same; all held good memories, but that was years ago. He wasn’t the same as he was back then, and neither was Robb. People and things change, especially. People often suggested that the Lannister side of Daveth had become the predominant personality trait despite his Baratheon looks – but only he knew himself better than anyone else. Even his own parents couldn’t figure him out.

“You look like you’re lost in thought,” Robb interrupts.

“It’s nothing serious, I assure you,” Daveth says.

Robb didn’t buy it. “How long have we known each other?”

Daveth shook his head. “You Northerners really are a stubborn bunch, aren’t you?” He took his time before redirecting his attention. “I guess some part of me is still trying to cope with Jon Arryn’s loss. One minute he was fine, and then the next…” Daveth shook his head again. “Grand Maester Pycelle gave him some milk of the poppy, just in case if Lord Arryn was in pain. It was all any of us could do for him.”

“Losing someone that close to you is never easy,” Robb said sympathetically.

“Nothing is ever easy,” Daveth remarks plainly. “Hard times lay ahead of us, my friend. I fear things will only get worse before it gets better. No doubt there’ll be those who will seek to take advantage of the chaos and throw the realm into chaos.”

Robb studied his friend’s words carefully. “Well, whatever comes our way, know that you will have my sword when that day comes.”

Daveth nodded. “And your help will be greatly appreciated. Our fathers held the Seven Kingdoms together. Seems only fit that it passes down onto us.”

They allowed themselves a laugh as they made their way to the Godswood, talking about current events and their plans for the future. Even though the path forward will without a doubt prove difficult for the youngsters…

* * *

**In the Winterfell crypts…**

* * *

 

Eddard Stark holds a lantern as he leads Robert down the narrow, winding stone steps.

“Tell me about Jon Arryn,” he beseeched.

Robert shook his head. “One moment he was fine, and then… Burned right through him, whatever it was. I loved that man.”

“We both did.”

“He never had to teach you much, but me… You remember me at 16? All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls. He showed me what was what.”

“Aye,” Ned agreed while giving Robert a sidelong, skeptical look, barely able to suppress a grin.

Robert noticed it right away as he started laughing. “Don’t look at me like that! It’s not his fault I didn’t listen.” He became more serious as he turns towards Eddard. “I need you, Ned. These are dangerous times… I need good men around me, like Jon Arryn. Men like you. I need you down at King’s Landing, not up here where you’re no damn use to anyone.” Standing tall, Robert issues his decree: “Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King.”

Eddard drops to one knee, not at all surprised.

“I’m not worthy of the honor.”

“I’m not trying to honor you,” Robert replied. “I’m trying to get you to run my kingdom while I eat, drink and whore my way to an early grave. Damn it, Ned, stand up.”

Eddard complies as Robert continues.

“You helped me win the Iron Throne, now help me keep the damned thing. We were meant to rule… together. If your sister had lived, we would have been bound by blood. Well, it’s not too late. I have a son, you have a daughter… my Daveth and your Sansa will join our houses.”

This came as a complete surprise to Eddard; he was definitely not expecting this. Especially from Robert of all people. Side by side they continued to proceed, their footsteps ringing off the stones as they walk among the dead of House Stark. Between the pillars on either side: granite sculptures of the deceased sitting on thrones, their backs against their own sepulchers. Great stone direwolves curl around their feet. Ned stops at the last tomb and lifts the lantern. The crypt continues on into the darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs are empty, waiting for him and his children. In front of him, illuminated by the lantern, a beautiful young woman stares out at them with blind, granite eyes: Lyanna Stark, Ned’s sister and Robert’s formerly betrothed.

Robert places a feather in the hand of her statue. “Did you have to bury her in a place like this?” he mournfully asks Eddard. “She should be on a hill somewhere with the sun and the clouds above her.”

Eddard stood firm. “She was my sister. This is where she belongs.”

“She belonged with me,” Robert answers back, reaching his hand out to touch the cheek of Lyanna’s statue, brushing the rough stone with his fingers as gently as if it were living flesh. “In my dreams, I kill him every night,” he snarled slightly.

Eddard’s younger sister, Lyanna Stark, was betrothed to Robert Baratheon eighteen years ago before the Grand Tourney at Harrenhal. For unknown reasons, the Crown Prince and heir to the Iron Throne at the time, Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, abducted and hid her away in Dorne. This event was extremely scandalous as Lyanna was the daughter of the Warden of the North and was betrothed to Robert while Rhaegar himself was already married to Princess Elia Martell, with whom he had a daughter and a son, Rhaenys and Aegon. It was said that this event, coupled with the Mad King (in his delusion and insanity) put both Eddard’s father Rickard and older brother Brandon to death, as well as the demand of the heads of Eddard and Robert, triggered a bloody civil war called “Robert’s Rebellion” that led to the downfall of the Mad King and the Targaryen dynasty. Robert won the crown, but Lyanna died not long afterwards. He suspected that Rhaegar tortured and raped Lyanna, though no one could say for certain.

“It’s done. The Targaryens are gone,” Ned reassures Robert.

But the Stag King lowers his head. “Not all of them.”


	3. Feasting the Royal Family

Strolling through the Winterfell settlement, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard continues to look for his younger brother Tyrion. If he knew Tyrion better, and he most certainly did, the Imp would most likely be within the nearest whorehouse – and set out to find him. Just simply listen to the sounds of moaning and they’ll lead him straight to the missing Lannister. Inside, Tyrion Lannister drinking wine and laughs as a red-headed prostitute named Ros bestows oral favors upon the dwarf. Tyrion shudders in pleasure as his “companion” finishes her work and stands up to meet him at eye-level.

“Mmh. It’s true what they say about the Northern girls,” Tyrion grins.

“Did you hear the king’s in Winterfell?” she giggles as Tyrion leads her to the nearest bed.

“I did hear something about that.”

Ros smiles. “And the Queen. And her twin brother. They say that he is the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms.”

Tyrion rolls his eyes in amusement. “The same has also been said of my nephew, as well. But what about the other brother?”

“The Queen has two brothers?” Ros mocks in a playful tone.

“There’s the pretty one,” Tyrion points out as he disrobes. “And there’s the clever one.”

Ros grins as she circles her finger around Tyrion’s chest. “I hear they call him the ‘Imp’.”

Tyrion’s grin briefly fell before returning. “I hear he hates that nickname.”

“Oh? I hear he’s more than earned it. I hear he’s a drunken little lecher into all manners of perversions.”

“Clever girl,” Tyrion concedes.

Ros giggles. “We’ve been expecting you, Lord Tyrion.”

“Have you?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “The Gods gave me one blessing.”

As Ros begins to climb on Tyrion, the door suddenly opens as Jaime enters without announcing his arrival. Ros stops moving and turns her attention towards Jaime.

“Don’t get up,” he says – not surprised at what he’s already seen.

“M'lord,” Ros addresses politely as she rolls off Tyrion.

Tyrion acted unamused but couldn’t help but joke around with his older brother.

“Should I explain to you the meaning of a closed door in a whorehouse, brother?” Tyrion questioned.

Jaime gives a lazy grin as he walks to the counter to pour himself a coup of ale. “You have much to teach me, no doubt, but in this instance perhaps you’ll forgive the interruption. Our sister craves your attention.”

“She has odd cravings, our sister,” Tyrion shrugs.

“A family trait,” Jaime replies. “Now, the Starks are feasting us at sundown. Don’t leave me alone with these people.”

“I’m sorry,” Tyrion playfully apologizes, “I’ve begun the feast a bit early. And this is the first of many courses.”

By that, Tyrion is pointing to Ros – who grins at the acknowledgment.

Jaime shook his head. “I thought you might say that. But since we’re short on time…”

He turns to the door and opens it, and one-by-one a bevy of naked whores enter and descend upon Tyrion.

“See you at sundown,” Jaime says as he bids farewell, making his way out.

“Close the door!” Tyrion shouts.

Jaime Lannister, amused, shook his head and makes his way back to the main hall to relay the news to Cersei. No doubt she will be furious, though what was to be expected from their brother. The same thing will always happen: Cersei will rant and rave for a while, and tomorrow things will be as if they never happened.

* * *

**In a bedroom at Winterfell…**

* * *

 

Catelyn Stark is busy fixing the hair of her eldest daughter Sansa. Although 13 years of age, the girl has been described as tall, slim, womanly, and beautiful, destined to be a lady or a queen. She has blue eyes and thick auburn hair that she inherits from her mother, who came from House Tully in the Riverlands. Even her own mother thinks Sansa will be even more beautiful than she was when she was younger. Already a lady by the time she was 3, Sansa was always so courteous and eager to please. She is enthralled by songs and stories of romance and adventure, particularly those depicting handsome princes, honorable knights, chivalry, and love. Initially those song and stories were Sansa’s vision of the world beyond Winterfell, a world she desperately wishes to experience.

When word reached Sansa’s ears that King Robert offered to name her father Eddard Stark the new Hand of the King, and possibly betrothing her to Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon, she couldn’t deny the fact that the notion thrilled prospect and the prospect excited her greatly. Sansa was immediately attracted to the Baratheon prince the moment she saw him for the first time and is very taken with him.

“Do you think Daveth will like me?” Sansa asks nervously, uncertain about whether or not her father would accept the King’s offer to betroth her to the Crown Prince. “What if he thinks I’m ugly?”

Catelyn shook her head as she continued to braid her daughter’s hair. “The Prince is one of many things, dear, but being stupid is not one of them. From what I could tell, Daveth seems to be a good lad. He’d better be, for his sake.”

Sansa listened to her mother as she held up a mirror.

“It’s like when I first married your father. He didn’t love me when we married; he hardly knew me or I him. Love didn’t just happen to us,” Catelyn continued. “We built it slowly. It takes time, but it lasts longer.”

She took a moment to let the words sink it, but couldn’t tell whether her daughter actually listened.

“He’s so handsome,” Sansa sighed dreamily.

Catelyn rolled her eyes, concluding Sansa only partially listened; yet at the same time she allowed herself a small smile at such youthful infatuation.

“When would we be married? Soon? Or do we have to wait?”

“Hush now,” her mother hushed in a gentle tone. “Your father hasn’t even said yes.”

Sansa looked confused. “Why would he say no? He’d be the second most powerful man in the kingdoms.”

“He’d have to leave home. He’d have to leave me… And so would you,” Catelyn said as pain began to take a grip, knowing that Eddard had to leave twice to fight in Robert’s wars. But the thought of losing one her daughters? The prospect seemed to crush Catelyn as a mother to have to say goodbye to one of her children.

Sansa didn’t seem to notice. “You left your home to come here. And I’d be Queen someday,” she says before turning to face her mother. “Please make father say yes.”

“Sansa…” Catelyn tried to speak, but was interrupted once more.

“Please, please. It’s the only thing I ever wanted.”

Catelyn was uncertain. Part of her wanted to remind Sansa to be a bit more careful and not rush things too quickly, but the other part of her wanted to give whatever her daughter asked for. She’ll soon find out once the festivities commenced tonight.

* * *

**Night time within the Interior Great Hall of Winterfell…**

* * *

 

The feast for the king enters its fourth hour. A singer players the harp at one end of the hall but none are able to hear him above the roaring fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the din of a hundred conversations going on at once. The long wooden tables are covered with steaming platters of roasted meats and baked breads. Banners hang from the stone walls: the dire wolf of House Stark; the crowned stag of House Baratheon; the lion of House Lannister.

Eddard Stark and Catelyn host King Robert (who already appears to be really drunk), Queen Cersei, Ser Jaime and a few other luminaries at a table on a raised platform. The Stark and Baratheon children sit at a table directly below the guests of honor. On the main floor, the soldiers, squires and other commoners sit on backless benches. The Starks were soon visited by their uncle Benjen, a well-respected member of the Night’s Watch who had stopped by. The youngest son of the late Lord Rickard Stark, Benjen earned a name for himself when he earned the rank of First Ranger, a high-ranking position within the Night’s Watch responsible for defending the Wall and ranging beyond it. As First Ranger, Benjen Stark leads the Rangers and answers only to Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. After sharing a hug with his nephew Robb, Benjen approaches Eddard.

“You at a feast – it’s like a bear in a trap,” he points out.

“The boy I beheaded,” Eddard says in reference to Will. “Did you know him?”

Benjen nods. “Of course I did,” he answers his older brother. “Just a lad. But he was tough, Ned. A true Ranger.”

“He was talking madness,” Eddard says. “Said the Walkers slaughtered his friends.”

“The two he was with are still missing,” Benjen acknowledges.

Eddard raises an eyebrow slightly. “A wildling ambush.”

“Maybe,” Benjen speculates. “Direwolves south of the Wall. Talk of the Walkers. My brother might become the next Hand of the King.”

Both elder Stark brothers shared a laugh before looking each other, a serious look on their faces.

“'Winter is coming’,” Benjen recites House Stark’s motto.

“'Winter is coming,” Eddard recites back.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

Among those not in attendance was Jon Snow. He was outside instead, stock piles of arrows. Frustrated at not being allowed inside, Jon began taking his frustrations out on a nearby fencing dummy.

“Is he dead yet?” a voice calls out to him, pointing to the abused training dummy.

Jon turns around and recognizes who that voice belonged to. “Uncle Benjen!” he reacts with excitement before hugging him.

“You got bigger,” Benjen says as he looks at his half-nephew. “I rode all day. Didn’t want to leave you alone with the Lannisters.” He notices how upset Jon looks. “Why aren’t you at the feast?” he asks concerned.

“Lady Stark thought it might insult the royal family to seat a bastard in their midst,” Jon answers honestly.

Jon had wanted to experience the festivities but was forbidden from doing so at Catelyn’s insistence. He never understood why Catelyn hated him; sure he was a bastard, but what did Jon ever do to his father’s wife that earned him such animosity?

“Well,” Benjen begins, “you’re always welcome on the Wall. No bastard was ever refused a seat there.”

“So take me with you when you go back,” Jon demands.

Benjen was taken aback. He hadn’t expected such a forceful request from Jon before. Something must have driven him to make such a decision, but Benjen tried to explain.

“Jon…”

Jon interrupted again. “Father will let me if you ask him, I know he will.”

“The Wall isn’t going anywhere,” Benjen reassures Jon.

“I’m ready to swear your oath,” he says again.

Benjen shook his head. “You don’t understand what you’d be giving up. We have no families. None of us will ever father sons.”

“I don’t care about that,” Jon replies.

“You might, if you knew what it meant… I’d better get inside. Rescue your father from his guests. We’ll talk later,” Benjen promises before going inside to the banquet.

Jon looked on at his half-uncle, hopeful that he would speak with his father about requesting his leave to join the Night’s Watch. His thoughts were soon broken by the approach of Tyrion Lannister.

“Your uncle’s in the Night’s Watch,” the Imp notices.

“What’re you doing back there?” Jon demands.

Tyrion takes a sip from his cup. “Preparing for a night with your family. I’ve always wanted to see the Wall.”

Jon sizes him up. “You’re Tyrion Lannister. The Queen’s brother?” he asks.

“My greatest accomplishment,” Tyrion replied rather grim.

“And… you’re Daveth’s uncle?”

Tyrion’s face then lights up with pride. “My proudest accomplishment,” he says with a smile. “And you – you’re Ned Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?”

Jon becomes visibly angry at being called that; he hated whenever people called him a bastard. So great was his anger that he turns away.

“Did I offend you?” Tyrion apologizes. “Sorry. You are a bastard, though.”

“Lord Eddard Stark is my father,” Jon answers flatly.

“And Lady Stark is not your mother,” Tyrion points out. “Making you a bastard. Let me give you some advice, bastard. Never forget what you are. The rest of the world will not. Wear it like armor. Then it can never be used to hurt you,” he says as he begins to walk away.

“What the hell do you know about being a bastard?” Jon shouts in anger.

Tyrion turns to look at Jon, solemnly answering: “All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes.”

As the dwarf heads inside, Jon continues stacking arrows and hitting the training dummy with his practice sword.

* * *

**Back inside…**

* * *

A few seats down at the main table, Catelyn and Cersei watch as Robert becomes rather bawdy with a tavern wench; Catelyn is embarrassed by this public act, while Cersei merely looks on in plain disgust at her drunken husband as he gets even more bawdy with the wench. Being a good hostess, Catelyn tries to distract Cersei.

“Is this your first time in the North, Your Grace?” Catelyn asks in desperation.

Queen Cersei looked at Catelyn. “Yes. Lovely country,” she acknowledges before observing Catelyn’s daughter Sansa, motioning her to come over – which the young maiden obediently obliges.

“I’m sure it’s very grim, after King’s Landing,” Catelyn continues. “I remember how scared I was when Ned brought me up here for the first time.”

Cersei nods as Sansa approaches, smiling shyly as she bows in courtesy before the Queen’s presence.

“Hello, little dove,” Cersei politely greets. “But you are a beauty. How old are you?”

“Thirteen, Your Grace,” Sansa answers.

Queen Cersei eyes her up and down. “You’re tall,” she notices. “Still growing?”

“I think so, Your Grace.”

“And have you bled yet?” Cersei asks.

Sansa’s posture now shifted slightly, showing Catelyn how embarrassed she was with the sudden question from the Queen. When she looks at her mother, Catelyn silently tells Sansa to answer.

“No, Your Grace,” Sansa replies discomfited.

“And your dress,” Cersei says as she looks over Sansa’s outfit, noting how finely detailed and perfect it looked. “Did you make it?”

Sansa smiles and nods yes.

Cersei smiles. “Such talent,” she praises. “You must make something for me.”

Sansa nods and courtesies again as she departs to return to her seat.

“I hear we might share a grandchild someday,” Queen Cersei says to Catelyn.

Catelyn looks pleased. “I hear the same.”

“Your daughter will do well in the capital. Such a beauty shouldn’t stay hidden up here forever.”

At the table below, Daveth Baratheon sips his cup. He didn’t like the taste of ale or wine, at least the ones he didn’t like as he looked at his father in disgust. He only did so because he didn’t want to be considered rude or impolite as his family were honored guests of the Starks. As he ate a few grapes, Daveth continues eyeing his father as King Robert began groping the wench’s bosom he was embracing.

_'If wine will make a man look and behave like THAT with no shame, then I’d be glad to never allow such vile toxin slide down my throat again…’_  Daveth thought as he swallowed his food.

“Something bothering you?” Robb says as he sat down next to him.

Daveth’s concentration broke. “What? Oh, Robb. Just… he’s doing it again,” he admits as he points in King Robert’s direction.

Robb notices it as well. “Has he always been like this?” he asks.

Daveth shrugged his shoulders. “For as long as I can remember. Gods be good, you’d think he’d have some decency as King. Why father believes this gives him the right to do whatever he pleases, I have no idea.”

There was a tense pause between the two.

“And how does the Queen feel?” Robb asks.

“Mother is absolutely livid about it,” Daveth answers. “It dishonors her, humiliates her. Whenever she argues with father about his… 'adventures'… he hits her.”

Robb looks disturbed. “What kind of King strikes his Queen?”

“A foolish one,” Daveth says. “When I was a child, I didn’t know what was wrong between the two of them. Ignorant as I was, I thought that maybe if I could find a way to fix things… maybe the physical and emotional abuse would stop,” he takes another drink. “Sadly, it didn’t work. Father never listened to me, mother didn’t appear to like it.”

As Robert laughs, Daveth looked back at his cup as Robb notices Daveth tightening his grip slightly.

“Which is why I’ve decided a long time ago that I will not be the kind of man father is,” Daveth swore, with some hint of heat in his voice. “Instead I will forge my own path. And only the history books will decide what kind of person I’ll be.”

“You’re already called 'the Oathkeeper’,” Robb jokes. “You’re wanting more?”

Daveth shudders in response. “Please don’t even think of such things.”

Both friends notice Sansa observing them, mostly Daveth. The Crown Prince nods his head upwards. Sansa blushes as she turns to her friend Jeyne Poole. Daveth decides to change the subject, becoming serious.

“I hear we’re about to become brothers soon.”

Robb returns with a more serious face. “As do I, Daveth. You’re a good friend and I trust you, but I need you to promise me that you’ll take good care of Sansa. She’s my sister. Promise me that no harm will come to her.”

Daveth stoically looks at Robb, before nodding his head. “You have my word.”

It was the same phrase Daveth used whenever he issued a promise… or a threat. Whenever someone, somewhere within the Seven Kingdoms negotiated with the famous Oathkeeper, they were always forced to take Prince Daveth Baratheon. If they pleased him, he rewarded them. If they failed or wronged him, he punished them. But in the event someone pushed him too far, Daveth without saying a word simply dealt swift retaliation against those who foolishly defied them or acted against his wishes. Such actions, sometimes harsh, were often compared to his grandfather Tywin Lannister’s brutal response to the rebellion House Reyne of Castamere and House Tarbeck of Tarbeck Hall almost 40 years ago. Such actions were later immortalized by the minstrels in the poular song, _The Rains of Castamere_. Robb acknowledged Daveth’s vow and the two shook hands.

Eddard Stark, on his way to the table, was blocked Jaime Lannister.

“Pardon,” he excuses but Jaime still refused to move aside.

“I hear we might be neighbors soon,” Jaime says. “I hope it’s true.”

Eddard acknowledges. “Yes, the King has honored me with his offer.”

“I’m sure we’ll have a tournament to celebrate the new title, if you accept,” Jaime points out. “It would be good to have you in the field. The competition has become a bit stale since my nephew Prince Daveth bested me in the melee last year.”

“I don’t fight in tournaments,” Eddard said.

Jaime raises an eyebrow, leaning forward as if to mock the Stark patriarch. “No? Getting a little old for it?”

Eddard shook his head. “I don’t fight in tournaments because when I fight a man for real, I won’t want him to know what I can do.”

Jaime’s eyes elevated slightly, grinning rather smugly. “Well said,” he complemented before finally stepping aside.

When all of a sudden…

***WHACK!***

“Arya!” Sansa screamed in horror.

Her sister Arya used her spoon as a catapult to fling a wad of pigeon pie at Sansa, across the table. It hit Sansa square in the face as bits and pieces fall from her cheek and lands on her dress. Her brothers Robb, Bran and Rickon saw it and laughed hysterically. Joffrey joined in by laughing, but Myrcella tried to help Sansa clean herself off and Tommen ducked to avoid being hit. Daveth saw what had occurred as well, before turning his head slightly.

_'Something tells me I’m going to have my hands full…’_  he thought.

“It’s not funny!” Sansa continued complaining as she tried to wipe herself, before Jeyne and Septa Mordane arrived to help clean it off. “This was my favorite dress, and she ruined it! She always does this! It’s not funny!”

The noise caught Catelyn Stark’s attention, who signals a laughing Robb to deal with the girls. No longer laughing, Robb stands from his seat and hoists up Arya.

“Time for bed,” he says as Arya looked upset at her fun being ruined. Robb nods at his mother and escorts his little sister to bed early.

* * *

**Pentos, across the Narrow Sea...**

* * *

 

At a window overlooking the Narrow Sea stood a young girl, with long, lush silver hair and violet eyes. Daenerys Targaryen, only daughter of King Aerys II Targaryen and his sister-wife Queen Rhaella, stared out at the bay of Pentos where shirtless fishermen haul nets full of wriggling fish from their boats onto the docks. She was a beautiful girl but nobody bothered to tell her that. House Targaryen had been the ruling royal House of Westeros for over 300 years since their ancestor Aegon I Targaryen–known simply as Aegon the Conqueror–united the Seven Kingdoms into a single realm through conquest. Their banner was a red, three-headed dragon on a black field; and their motto “Fire and Blood.” The Targaryens were the old blood of Valyria, an empire spanning most of the eastern continent of Essos before sailing across the Narrow Sea to Westeros.

The members of House Targaryen, like their ancestors of Valyria, often married brother to sister to keep their bloodline pure in order to control the dragons and keep their Valyrian legacy. However, generations of such heavy inbreeding increasingly produced insanity in some of them. After 300 years of this, varying forms of insanity became so common in the family that it was said that every time a new Targaryen was born, the Gods would flip a coin to determine if he or she would grow to be insane. The last was Daenerys’s father Aerys, whom the people in Westeros labeled “The Mad King” before he was slain during Robert’s Rebellion and House Targaryen was deposed by House Baratheon.

For more than 17 years, the remnants of House Targaryen had been living in exile; begging for food and shelter from wealthy patrons of the Free Cities.

“Where’s my sweet sister?” a voice bellowed out.

In her room steps her older brother, Viserys Targaryen, older brother to Daenerys and younger brother to Rhaegar. Officially, he is styled as “Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” However, the name means nothing to him now as Robert Baratheon, whom he calls “Usurper”, was now sitting on the Iron Throne. In his arms is a white silk dress made especially for his sister.

“Daenerys,” Viserys calls out. “There’s our bride to be! Look – a gift from Illyrio. Touch it. Come on. Feel the fabric.”

Daenerys obediently complies with her older brother’s request. She gently brushes her fingers across the delicate dress, letting it slight through. But the sight of it gives her no pleasure.

“Isn’t Illyrio a gracious host?”

Daenerys hands the gown back to her brother and meekly looked up. “We’ve been his guests for over a year and he’s never asked us for anything.”

“Illyrio’s no fool. He knows I won’t forget my friends when I come into my throne.” Viserys hangs the gown from a hook beside the door. “You still slouch,” Viserys studies her critically as he pulls off his sister’s gown. “You have a woman’s body now. I need you to be perfect today. Can you do that for me?”

Daenerys covers her breasts and looks away, earning the ire of Viserys.

“You wouldn’t want to wake the dragon, do you?” he warns in a menacingly, low tone of voice.

A narcissist, Viserys was a rather arrogant and self-centered man, caring only about himself and looking down on others, especially his sister Daenerys. While his relationship with his sister was initially warm, Viserys grew to resent Daenerys for the death of their mother during her birth and began treating her abusively, both with cruel words and with physical assaults. He would frequently warn her not to “wake the dragon” and incite his anger.

“No,” Daenerys quietly answers with a small hint of fear.

“Good,” Viserys smiles and nods, brushing back her hair with something like affection. As he starts to leave the chamber, he turns around to face his sister. “When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say it began today.”

Once Viserys leaves, Daenerys turns around and steps into a steaming hot bath with a despairing look on her face. As she approaches the water, the maids warn her.

“It’s too hot, my lady.”

But Daenerys keeps stepping deeper. Wondering what the future holds in store for her. Only the Gods and fate will decide, if they are as merciful as she hopes they are.


	4. He Saw Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*: The following content may not be appropriate for certain persons under the age of 18 (depending on the legal age requirements in countries outside the United States) and may contain NSFW material such strong language, nudity, profanity and/or sexual themes that some viewers may find offensive. If you are under 18, do not view such content. Viewer discretion is advised. If you are 18 and up, enjoy!

 

* * *

  **In the Lord of Winterfell's bedchambers...**

* * *

 

The festivities had ended, every attendee had a full stomach and were escorted to their rooms to sleep for the night. In one chamber, Eddard Stark still lies awake – contemplating on King Robert’s offer to make him the next Hand of the King. A blast of cold night air blows into the chamber. Catelyn pulls the furs up to her chin. Eddard breathes deeply, taking the cold into his lungs, staring into the distance before turning to face his wife.

“I’m a Northmen,” he says quietly. “I belong here with you, not down south in that rat’s nest they call a capital…”

Catelyn looks up at her husband, her face softening as she sees her husband’s feeling of emotional conflict.

“I won’t let him take you,” she proclaims.

“The King takes what he wants. That’s why he’s King.”

Catelyn smiles as she playfully pokes Eddard’s cheek. “I’ll say, ‘Listen, fat man, you are not taking my husband anywhere. He belongs to me now.’”

Eddard chuckles at Catelyn’s sense of humor as she starts to cuddle him.

“How did he get so fat?” he asks quietly in surprise, still having a hard time believing that his childhood friend Robert gained so much weight.

“He only stops eating when it’s time for a drink,” Catelyn jokes again, causing the two to start laughing again.

Such a comforting moment was ruined when a sentry knocked at the door.

“It’s Maester Luwin, m'lord,” they call out.

“Send him in,” Eddard calls out.

Eddard slowly gets out of bed as he slips on a heavy robe. The door opens and Maester Luwin enters, waiting until the door is shut behind him before speaking.

“Pardon, m'lord, m'lady,” Luwin apologizes for disturbing their rest. “A rider in the night from your sister.”

Luwin draws a tightly rolled paper waxed in a blue moon-and-falcon seal from his loose sleeves and hands it to Catelyn. She removes the seal and begins to read, recognizing the symbol of the falcon.

“This was sent from the Eyrie,” Catelyn realizes in astonishment. “What’s she doing at the Eyrie? She hasn’t been back there since her wedding.”

As she continues reading the content of the letter, Catelyn begins to show a worried look on her face and looks up in alarm before throwing the message into the fire to burn it.

“What news?” Eddard asks.

“She’s fled the capital,” Catelyn warns him. “She says Jon Arryn was murdered. By the Lannisters. She says the King is in danger.”

The accusation shocks Eddard.

“She’s fresh widowed, Cat,” Eddard tries to rationalize it away. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.”

Catelyn shakes her head. “Lysa’s head would be on a spike right now if the wrong people found that letter. Do you think she would risk her life, her son’s life, if she wasn’t certain her husband was murdered?”

Eddard looks at Maester Luwin, imploring the old man for his opinion.

“If this news is true, and the Lannisters conspire against the throne, who but you can protect the King?” he says.

“They murdered the last Hand,” Catelyn exclaims. “Now you want Ned to take the job?”

Luwin looks at her in sympathy, but points out the facts. “The King rode for a month to ask Lord Stark’s help. He’s the only one he trusts,” he says before returning his attention to Eddard. “You swore the King an oath, m'lord.”

Catelyn continues to remain adamant about the decision. “He spent half his life fighting Robert’s wars. He owes him nothing,” she argues. “Ned, your father and brother rode south once on a King’s demand. And they never came home again!”

“A different time,” Luwin counters. “A different King.”

But Ned’s thoughts are belied by the resignation in his face. She is right and he knows it. He sits heavily in a chair beside the hearth.

“Does the Crown Prince know anything about this?” he asks.

Luwin appears rather uncertain. “It’s difficult to say, m'lord. I believe if the Prince was made aware of the plot against his father, I believe he would have acted on it sooner before the King’s decision to ride this far North. It’s possible that the Prince knows nothing about the conspiracy surrounding the Lannister’s involvement in Lord Arryn’s death.”

“Then that means Daveth’s also in danger…” Catelyn theorizes, not liking this disturbing news.

Eddard says nothing, watching the flames devour the wood.

* * *

**Outside a mansion in the Free City of Pentos…**

* * *

Magister Illyrio Mopatis and his guests Daenerys and her brother Viserys stand outside in the gardens. It is obvious that they are waiting for someone’s arrival. Today was a big day, and Viserys was rather impatient.

“Where is he?” he asks Illyrio.

“The Dothraki are not known for their punctuality,” he answers.

On que, a host of Dothraki bloodriders come riding up to the front entrance of the mansion. In the front stands their chieftain, Khal Drogo, a large muscular man and legendary warrior who has never lost a battle in his life and expanded his mighty tribe into the largest khalasar Essos has ever seen. Illyrio welcomes Drogo and his khalasar in their native language; he soon redirects his attention to Viserys and Daenerys.

“May I present my honored guests? Viserys of House Targaryen, the Third of His Name. The rightful King of the Andals and the First Men. And his sister, Daenerys of the House Targaryen.”

Daenerys looks at the menacing Dothraki. She is wearing the lilac gown Viserys gave her, her make-up has been artfully applied but somehow she looks even younger than before. She stands before him, seeming terribly nervous. Viserys grins as he leans forward and whispers into Daenerys’s ear, never taking his eyes off Drogo.

“Do you see how long his hair is? When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braid so the whole world can see their shame. Khal Drogo has never been defeated. He’s a savage, of course, but he’s one of the finest killers alive. And you will be his Queen.”

Daenerys swore she felt her heart stop in sheer terror as she now becomes fully aware of his brother’s intentions: Viserys plans to marry her off to Khal Drogo in exchange for an army he desires to retake the Seven Kingdoms.

“Come forward, my dear,” Illyrio beseeches as he holds his hand out to her.

Daenerys quickly averts her eyes as soon as the fearsome Dothraki warriors began to stare at her. She reluctantly did as she was told and slowly made her way down the steps, approaching Khal Drogo himself as Daenerys begins to lift her head up to look into the Khal’s eyes – although there is fear on her face. His eyes dark as onyx, Drogo examines Daenerys up and down, gazing her with his face as cold and brutal as he continued to not say a word. Drogo, immediately afterwards, leads his horsemen on a charge away.

“Where’s he going?” Viserys protests, running down the steps as Drogo’s khalasar rides away.

Illyrio looks at the exiled Targaryen king. “The ceremony is over.”

“But he didn’t say anything! Did he like her?” he asks the Pentoshi magister.

“Trust me, Your Grace. If he didn’t like her, we’d know.”

The scene soon shifts to all three of them on a garden balcony overlooking the Narrow Sea.

“It won’t be long now,” Illyrio says to Viserys. “Soon you will cross the Narrow Sea and take back your father’s throne. The people drink secret toasts to your health. They cry out for their true King.”

Viserys, still impatient, rudely cuts him off. “When will they be married?” he asks in a rather demanding tone of voice, implying the arranged marriage between his sister to Khal Drogo.

“Soon,” Illyrio reassures him. “The Dothraki never stay still for long.”

As they walk along the garden balcony, Viserys begins to ask questions about the Dothraki people.

“Is it true they life with their horse?”

“I wouldn’t ask Khal Drogo.”

“Do you take me for a fool?” Viserys angrily snaps.

“I take you for a King. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologizes if I’ve given offense.”

“I know how to play a man like Drogo. I give him a Queen and he gives me an army.”

Daenerys, on the other hand, stops in her tracks. “I don’t want to be his Queen,” she pleads. This abruptly stops Illyrio and Viserys, who turn to look at her. “Please, please, I want to go home.”

Viserys maintains a mask of politeness and keeps his voice low, but there is fury behind his eyes.

“So do I. I want us both to go home. But they took it from us. So tell me, sweet sister, how do we go home?” he asks as he grabs her arm, his fingernail digging deep into her.

“I… I don’t know,” Daenerys answers as tears begin to form in her eyes.

“We go home with an army,” Viserys replies. “With Khal Drogo’s army. I would let his whole tribe fuck you. All 40,000 men and their horses, too, if that’s what it took.”

Daenerys sniffles and wipes away the unfallen tears. Viserys gives his sister a brotherly kiss on the forehead and walks away with Magister Illyrio. Daenerys simply follows behind them.

* * *

**At a Dothraki encampment…**

* * *

 

Outside the city walls of Pentos, hordes of Dothraki warriors ― along with their women, children, and slaves ― have gathered to celebrate their Khal’s wedding day. It is a wild celebration, consisting of fighting and fornication. An earthen ramp has been raised in the middle of a vast grass field. Daenerys sits beside Khal Drogo. Beautiful as she is in her wedding silks, she looks as scared at everything around her like a trapped animal. Drogo does not seem to notice her. He shouts commands and jests in his own tongue to his bloodriders, who sit below him on the second-highest level of the ramp. Also seated on that level are Magister Illyrio and Viserys, who looks splendid in a new black wool tunic with a scarlet dragon insignia on his chest. They are in the midst of an urgent conversation, keeping their voices as low as possible.

“When do I meet with the Khal?” Viserys asks. “We need to begin planning the invasion.”

“If Khal Drogo has promised you a crown, you shall have it,” Illyrio whispers.

“When?”

“When their omens favor war.”

Viserys scoffs. “I piss on Dothraki omens. I’ve waited seventeen years to get my throne back.”

Daenerys turns to see what he’s watching: Dothraki drummers pound on their horseskin drums as a dozen young Dothraki women begin dancing for their Khal. The Dothraki are not a repressed people. The dance is overtly sexual, so overt that a warrior soon steps into the circle, grabs a dancer by the arm, pushes her to the ground and takes her right there in front of the cheering crowd. 

Khal Drogo grins and nods. Evidently this is appropriate wedding behavior. Daenerys watches with horror. Soon a second warrior has grabbed a dancer, and then a third. The trouble begins when two warriors try to lay claim to the same woman. Both men draw their scimitars and begin swinging at each other. The combat is fast, brutal and efficient, the steel blades blurring in the sunlight. Finally one man misses a parry. An instant later his entrails spill onto the dust and he falls. The victor seizes a girl, not even the original girl they were fighting over, and the crowd roars in approval.

Daenerys struggles to keep from vomiting. The platter of blood sausages in front of her do not help.

Illyrio notices Viserys, who looks confused as to what’s going on. “A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair,” he explains to Viserys, who grins with excitement.

As gifts continue to be placed down at Khal Drogo’s feet, a knight in Westerosi garb appears. Drogo greets him in his native tongue, who in turn returns the greeting. He comes bearing books and gives it to Daenerys.

“A small gift for the new Khaleesi. Songs and histories from the Seven Kingdoms,” he says.

Daenerys kindly accepts the books. “Thank you, ser,” she smiles and speaks for the first time at her own wedding. She takes a moment to look at the man, studying his features. “Are you… from my country?” she asks curiously.

The man nods yes. “Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island,” he introduces himself. Looking roughly past the age of 40 and slightly balding, he remains strong and fit. “I served your father for many years. Gods be good, I hope to always serve the rightful King.”

Viserys looks at Jorah and gives a slight nod, pleased by the obeisance. Illyrio snaps his fingers. Four slaves hurry forward, bearing between them a great cedar chest bound in bronze. Illyrio bows low and gestures for Daenerys to open the chest. As Daenerys opens the chest, inside rest a pile of fine velvets and damasks, as well as three large eggs: one green, one cream, one black. She takes on into her hands. The egg shimmers like polished metal, the surface of the shell covered with tiny scales.

“Dragons’ eggs,” Illyrio explains. “From the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai. The ages have turned them to stone, but they will always be beautiful.”

“Thank you, Magister,” Daenerys nods.

Viserys, standing with Illyrio, rolls his eyes.

Khal Drogo stands and raises one hand, and immediately the Dothraki horde goes silent. The only noise is the bleating of a lost sheep. Drogo looks at Daenerys. There is no sign of mercy in his face. She realizes that everyone at the wedding is watching her. Finally she stands and walks down the ramp into the center of the field towards a white mare with Khal Drogo alongside her. Daenerys stands behind her new husband, encircled by her new tribe, looking very small and pale in comparison to Drogo.

Daenerys tries to hide her anxiety. The Dothraki look back at her. To her, they are an exotic people, but to them she is a foreigner. They have never seen a girl with silver hair and violet eyes before. Everyone waits to see how Daenerys will react. Hesitantly, Daenerys reaches out to stroke the horse’s neck, running her fingers through its mane.

“She’s beautiful,” she murmurs before turning to Jorah. “Ser Jorah, I don’t know how to say 'thank you’ in Dothraki.”

Jorah shakes his head slightly. “There is no word for 'thank you’ in Dothraki.”

Drogo says nothing as he steps forward, putting his hands on Daenerys’s waist and lifts her as easily as if she were a small child and places her on her horse. The Dothraki stare at their new Khaleesi. Viserys approaches Daenerys. He looks very pleased as he grips his sister’s leg, digging his fingers into her thigh as Daenerys flinches.

“Make him happy,” he smirks triumphantly.

Khal Drogo trots off on his stallion and Dany follows behind, looking back at Viserys and Illyrio and Ser Jorah. The exhilaration that brightened her face a minute before is gone. The fear is back.

Dusk has now fallen upon the meadow. Near a stream, Drogo stops at a grassy spot beside a gently-flowing stream. He swings off his horse and lifts Daenerys off hers. She stands there, helpless and trembling in her wedding silks, while Drogo secures the horses to a nearby tree.

When he returns Daenerys starts to cry. Drogo stares at her, towering over Daenerys, his face strangely empty of expression. He rubs away her tears with a callused thumb.

“No,” Khal Drogo tells her, not speaking his native language for the first time.

Daenerys looks at her new husband. “Do you know the Common Tongue?” she asks.

“No,” he simply answers.

“Is 'no’ the only word that you know?” Daenerys doesn’t understand, but somehow sees there is warmth in his tone, a tenderness she did not expect.

“No,” he says again before taking off Daenerys gown.

She winces slightly, trying to cover her breasts. Daenerys averts her eyes, but her arms are pulled apart by Khal Drogo – gently, but firm.

“No,” he says as he shakes his head.

Exposed, Daenerys shivers in the evening wind as Drogo bends her down. He runs his hand gently down her leg. He strokes her face, tracing the curves of her ears, running a finger over her lips. He turns her around, kissing her from the nape of her neck to the small of her back. He pulls her down into his lap. Daenerys is flushed and breathless. He cups her face in his huge hands and she looks into his eyes.

“No?” Dorgo asks.

Daenerys hesitates, but simply shakes her head. “Yes,” she says as she takes his hand and moves it between her thighs.

* * *

**At the Winterfell courtyard…**

* * *

Tyrion Lannister wakes up outside, seating next to Sandor Clegane. It was obvious that the dwarf had a serious bad hangover and his head was throbbing, moving his body very, very slowly.

“Rough night, Imp?” The Hound implores.

“If I get through this without squirting from one end or the other, it will be a miracle,” Tyrion groans as he holds his head to keep it still.

Sandor looks at him. “I didn’t pick you for a hunter.”

“The greatest in the land,” Tyrion jokes. “My spear never misses.”

“It’s not hunting if you pay for it,” Sandor retorts.

A few yards deeper into the courtyard, Eddard mounts his horse as his ward Theon hands him a pair of leather gloves. Strapped in a leather-and-steel vambrace to his forearm, Eddard seems preoccupied and careworn as King Robert steps up towards him and gives him a friendly greeting.

“You as good with a spear as you used to be?” Robert asks.

Eddard smiles. “No. But I’m still better than you.”

Robert laughs. “I know what I’m putting you through. Thank you for saying yes,” he says before softening his tone, almost feeling sorry he’s putting a huge burden on his friend without considering his feelings. “I only ask you because I need you,” he reassures Eddard. “You’re a loyal friend. You hear me? A loyal friend. The last one I’ve got.”

“I hope I’ll serve you well."

“You will. And I’ll make sure you don’t look so fucking grim all the time!” The King laughs again and snaps his fingers. “Come on, boys, let’s go kill some boar!”

As the King’s party rides off to go hunting, Eddard notices Bran standing at the other end of the courtyard and nods goodbye. As his wolf pup Summer begins sniffing at his feet, Bran wanted to go hunting with his father very badly, but was reminded that he is too young.

About fifty yards to his right, he sees Winterfell’s Master-at-Arms, Ser Rodrik Cassel – a stout man with thick white sideburns tied under his chin – observe a training exercise between Robb Stark and Prince Daveth Baratheon. The young men, armed with sparring swords, were matching each other blow-for-blow with neither of them landing a decisive hit on the other. A dozen spectators call out encouragements, the loudest among them being Arya Stark, and Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen Baratheon – who clapped and cheered for their respective brothers. Theon watches with wry contempt; Joffrey, on the other hand, merely stood at on side of the corner folding his arms, glaring at his older brother – envious of Daveth’s prowess.

As the swords clash, Robb and Daveth held their ground. Without warning, Daveth fluidly kicks Robb’s leg out from under him and circles around him, avoiding Robb’s thrust before swiftly disarming him. The spectators grew silent as Ser Rodrik ends it. Daveth helps Robb to his feet.

“Well fought, my friend,” Daveth compliments. “One more round?”

Robb grins with confidence, not ready to concede defeat yet. “Gladly.”

Brann sighs as his brother and the Crown Prince begin their second bout, his mood sinking. But he hears Summer growling at his feet. He looks down at his wolf pup, jerking his head back and forth, with Bran’s pant leg clamped between his jaws. Finally, Bran smiles.

“Come on, you,” he motions to Summer. As he runs off, his wolf bounds after him.

* * *

**At one of Winterfell’s abandoned towers…**

* * *

With his wolf at his heels, Bran runs toward the Broken Tower, the oldest part of the castle. He reaches the squat round tower and looks up. The tower has been deserted for years; its crown has begun to crumble, and moss grows between the stones. High above, it is festooned with gargoyles leaning blindly over empty space.

Bran turns to the pup. “Lie down. Now stay.”

The wolf pup does as he is told. Bran scratches him behind the ears, then finds a handhold in the keep’s wall and begins to climb, moving from stone to stone quickly and instinctively. When Bran is about ten feet up, his wolf rises to his feet and begins to howl. Bran looks down. His wolf falls silent. There’s something eerily imploring the way the animal looks up at him through slitted yellow eyes. He doesn’t want Bran to keep climbing.

Bran starts climbing again. His wolf pup starts howling again.

“Quiet! Sit! Stay!” Bran shouts down sternly.

Summer continues to howl, until Bran is far, far above him. Then he drops back down onto his stomach and whines.

Bran scrambles up the rough-cut stones of the ancient tower, climbing with no fear and without hesitation. When he gets high enough he begins swinging from gargoyle to gargoyle. He knows where to find every handhold and foothold. He is near the very top when a couple moans from inside the tower startles him, nearly causing him to lose his grip. Clinging to a gargoyle, Bran looks down, past his dangling feet. He reaches for the next gargoyle over, looking inside to investigate. From his vantage, Bran looks inside and is shocked at what he sees.

A fur cloak has been laid on the stone floor of the unlit chamber, laid a naked Queen Cersei Lannister having sex with her twin brother Jaime. Gripping Cersei’s hips, Jaime continues to pound away, thrusting deep into her – causing her to moan loudly as skin slaps against skin. Cersei’s voice is low and she pushes back; the harder Jaime thrusts, the more she moans. Startled, Bran has no idea what to make of all this and his arm accidentally brushes against the stone edge – making a brief noise. Cersei’s loss in pure ecstasy is broken when she hears it. As she turns and looks up, Cersei sees Bran starting at the couple.

“Stop! STOP!” Cersei screams.

Everything happens at once. Jaime now sees Bran as well, and Cersei pushes herself away – still shouting and pointing at the boy as she covers herself up.

Panicking, Bran tries to get away by reaching for a gargoyle’s head. His hands scrape uselessly against the smooth stone and his legs slip, quickly grabbing the edge of the window ledge.

“He saw us!” Cersei continues to scream in terror.

Jaime runs and grabs Bran at the window. “Are you completely mad?” he glares at the boy.

Cersei still points at Brann. “He saw us.”

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” Jaime says to his sister.

“He saw us!” Cersei shouts.

Annoyed, Jaime turns to Cersei. “I heard you the first time,” he says before returning his attention towards Bran. “Quite the little climber, aren’t you? How old are you boy?”

“Ten,” Bran says terrified.

“Ten,” Jaime repeats his answer.

Bran trembles. “I promise I won’t tell anyone, my lord! I swear it by the Old Gods and the new! I won’t tell anyone!” he desperately pleads, hoping the infamous Kingslayer would find it in his heart to show mercy and spare his life.

Jaime looks at Cersei, who in turn gazes back at her brother imploring him to do something.

“The things I do for love,” Jaime sighs in resignation.

Without hesitation, Jaime immediately shoves Bran out the window. The boy falls backward out the window, screaming on the way down.

***THUD!***

The courtyard rushes up to meet him. Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howls. Crows circle the broken tower. The events that took place at the tower would only serve as a spark that would re-open old wounds, rivalry and tensions to flare up, and possibly spiral the country into chaos.


	5. Back on the Road

* * *

**One month later…**

* * *

The denizens of Winterfell have been solemnly quiet. When news reached the Stark household’s ears of Bran’s accident, Catelyn immediately called for Maester Luwin’s assistance; Robb ordered a raven be sent to his father informing him of what had happened. Bran remains comatose, his mother sitting by his side. Servants were running around as the direwolves Grey Wind, Lady, Nymeria, Summer and Shaggydog howled mournfully. Strolling through the courtyard, Daveth Baratheon was making his way towards the main hall to check on the boy himself.

Now standing outside the door, the Crown Prince knocked on the door.

Luwin opens the door. “My Prince,” he bows.

“Maester Luwin,” Daveth simply acknowledges. “M'lady,” he says quietly to Catelyn.

Catelyn took a brief glance at Daveth before returning her gaze to the unconscious Bran, weaving a prayer web detailing the religious Faith of the Seven symbol.

Daveth slowly approaches the bed, looking over Bran as the boy’s chest slowly rises and falls.  _‘Such a terrible fate to befall a child his age…’_  he thought. “How fares the boy?” he asks Luwin, looking over his shoulder to the old maester.

“The fall appears to have badly damaged Lord Brandon’s spine,” Luwin begins. “I fear that he might never walk again.”

Catelyn sniffles, wiping away a tear. Daveth remains rather stoic about the situation. “But the boy will live?”

“I believe so, m'lord,” Luwin nods, “although it’s hard to say exactly when he will wake.”

Daveth nods, redirecting his eyes towards Catelyn. “I heard what happened to your son, m'lady. Know that if there is anything you or your family needs from me, just say the word and I’ll be at your service.”

He gently places his hand on Catelyn’s shoulder, giving a small squeeze.

“Have faith, Cat,” he said reassuringly. “Your son is a strong lad. He’ll pull through. I know it.”

Catelyn finally looks up at Daveth, tapping his hand on her shoulder. “Thank you. I’m grateful,” she replies.

Daveth nods and stands. “I won’t take up more of your time, m'lady. I’ll leave you to your son,” he says and gives a courteous bow as he exits the room.

As he begins to make his way down the stairs, Daveth felt a chill crawl up and down his spine. Normally he’d shake it off and blame it on the Nothern cold, but something in his gut just wouldn’t leave him alone.

_'This feeling hasn’t ceased for quite a while now,’_  Daveth ponders. _'Whatever this is, I don’t like it…’_

Daveth shook his head; he’ll have time to worry about that once he’s had some food in his stomach. No doubt that most of his family’s already waiting for him in the great hall getting ready for breakfast before their departure for the ride south.

* * *

At one of the kennels, Tyrion Lannister wakes up in a stall – groggily noticing a pack of dogs surrounding him. How drunk was he last night? He rubs his eyes, noticing his nephew Prince Joffrey Baratheon and Sandor Clegane standing over him.

“Better-looking bitches than you’re used to, uncle,” Joffrey quips. “My mother’s been looking for you. We ride for King’s Landing today.”

Tyrion slowly staggers up. “Before you go, you will call on Lord and Lady Stark and offer your sympathies.”

“What good will my sympathies do them?” the golden-haired Prince frowns.

“None,” Tyrion answers. “But it is expected of you, just as it was expected of your brother. He’s already noticed your absence.”

“The boy means nothing to me. Sometimes I don’t know why my 'proud brother’ even wastes his time with northerners. And I can’t stand the wailing of women―”

***SLAP!***

Joffrey felt a sharp sting at his cheek, immediately bringing his palm up. Tyrion had just slapped him hard!

“One word and I’ll hit you again,” Tyrion warns his nephew.

“I’m telling mother!”

***SLAP!***

Not heeding his uncle’s words, Joffrey was slapped again – whimpering as he holds his other cheek.

“Go! Tell her,” Tyrion says. “But first you will get to Lord and Lady Stark, and you will fall on your knees in front of them and tell them how very sorry you are, that you are at their service, and that all your prayers are with them. Do you understand?”

“You can't―”

***SLAP!***

“Do you understand?” Tyrion repeats.

Joffrey angrily storms off, not saying another word. Sandor had watched the event take place, looking down at the dwarf.

“The Prince will remember that, little lord,” he warns.

“I hope so. I know Daveth would’ve probably done the same,” Tyrion shrugs. “And if he forgets, be a good dog and remind him,” he stretches and makes his way to the main hall. “Ah!” he yawns loudly. “Time for breakfast.”

* * *

**At the Interior Great Hall of Winterfell…**

* * *

Servants are seen pacing back and forth, prepping food for the royal family. Tyrion already makes his way in as most look down at him.

“Bread. And two of those little fish,” he requests. “And a mug of dark beer to wash it down. And bacon, burnt black.”

Tyrion approaches the table, where Cersei, Jaime, Daveth, Myrcella and Tommen are already eating. Daveth was sitting between Jaime and Tommen. Upon arriving, Tyrion sits between Daveth and Jaime, moments after Daveth moves over to make room for his uncle.

“Little brother,” Jaime warmly greets.

“Beloved siblings,” Tyrion greets before looking at Daveth, Tommen and Myrcella. “And how are my favorite nephews and niece this morning?” he smiles warmly at them.

“Good morning, Uncle Tyrion!” both Myrcella and Tommen greets happily.

“Uncle Tyrion,” Daveth acknowledges.

Daveth looks down at Tyrion and nods his head, though Tyrion could tell immediately that his oldest nephew was pleased to see him as well. He was always good at reading people, and is one of few people to figure Daveth out no matter the facial expression or posture.

“Is Bran going to die?” Myrcella spoke up sweetly.

Daveth looked at his younger sister; pleased at her mannerisms and his youngest brother Tommen’s as well as both possessed certain behaviors that Joffrey lacked. But at the same time, the same chill he felt earlier returned as Daveth and Tyrion looked at each other.

Tyrion shook his head. “Apparently not,” he replied.

Both Tommen and Myrcella smiled, delighted at hearing the news. Queen Cersei, on the other hand, looked slightly concerned.

“What do you mean?” Cersei implores.

“I spoke with the maester earlier this morning, mother,” Daveth explains. “He says the boy may live, though it’s hard to say exactly when he’ll wake up.”

Both Cersei and Jaime exchanged an odd brief, look. But it didn’t take long for Daveth to spot it before turning away his gaze to avoid giving himself away.

“Will he…?” Tommen asks.

“I’m afraid he will never walk again, Tommen,” Daveth interrupts.

Tommen looks down from his eldest brother after hearing the news, continuing to eat his food quietly.

“It’s no mercy, letting a child linger in such pain,” Cersei implored.

Daveth put his fork down and looked up at Cersei. “Was I any different from when I was struck with the fever, mother?” he implores.

Cersei’s heart froze, and her cold face softened into a rather hurt expression – a rare moment Cersei experienced with her firstborn. She had remembered all too well of the Greywater Fever epidemic of 285 AC that almost claimed Daveth’s life during his childhood…

**ooOoo**

> Flashback – Red Keep, King’s Landing (13 years ago)
> 
> _“Mama…” four-year old Daveth moaned weakly, his breathing labored. The boy’s face was pale as a ghost and was sweating rather profusely._
> 
> _As he lay in bed, the Crown Prince’s eyes were closed and struggled to breathe. Beside him stood his mother Queen Cersei Lannister, gently holding her son’s hand in hers. He’d been sick for several days and his condition was getting worse. Cersei feared she would lose her first child before his life even began._
> 
> _“Such a little thing…” Cersei looked down at her ill-stricken boy. “Is there nothing you can do for him?” she pleaded with Grand Maester Pycelle._
> 
> _“I’m doing everything I possibly can, Your Grace,” the old man attempted to reassure Cersei, hunching over Daveth. “Greywater Fever isn’t generally lethal, b-but if the Prince isn’t given enough fluids then I f-fear that he… will not survive. This disease is commonly found in the Neck, but…”_
> 
> _“I don’t care where it comes from!” Cersei snaps, no longer having any patience at all. “Just cure him!” She redirects her attention and changed the wet cloth placed on his forehead._
> 
> _Cersei checks Daveth’s temperature, placing her palm onto his cheeks. He was burning up, and the Queen tried everything she could possibly think of to cool her son down. She reached across the counter to grab another glass of water, and held it to Daveth’s lips._
> 
> _“Drink, sweetling,” Cersei spoke softly. “It’ll make you feel better.”_
> 
> _Struggling to open his eyes, Daveth slowly opened his mouth and felt the cool water slide down his throat. He coughed a bit and clutched his sides in agony, which in his condition was not a good sign. Disease took many children, rich and poor; it did not discriminate._
> 
> _If there was anything Cersei Lannister hated in the world, she hated feeling so helpless at not being able to do more for her son. She prayed every day that the Gods would show her mercy, even if it’s just once. They didn’t heed her prayers when her mother Joanna Lannister died, so Cersei pleaded with the Gods to spare her child’s life._
> 
> _“If I may, my Queen,” a mysterious female voice called out to her._
> 
> _Cersei turned around to see a woman wearing red approach her. Her accent was not of Westeros. The woman graciously, yet slowly extending her hand to make an offer._
> 
> _“Your healer only knows from what he was told,” she states, “but there is another way.”_
> 
> _Cersei’s head immediately shot up. “Who are you to just barge in here unannounced?!”_
> 
> _The woman smiled. “My apologies, Your Grace. But I’ve come offering a solution, one that could possibly save your son’s life.”_
> 
> _Cersei fell silent, looking back at Daveth… his breathing becoming shallower. “Speak then,” she demands._
> 
> _“I know a certain magic, one that only exists across the Narrow Sea. One that is vastly superior to the Westeros’ approach to medicine. If it is successful, your son… will live.”_
> 
> _“And what is it that you want in return?” Cersei narrows her eyes in suspicion._
> 
> _The woman shakes her head. “It is not wealth or acknowledgment I seek. My beliefs do not allow such things. I only wish to help this boy. Nothing more.”_
> 
> _Cersei stood up. “Fine, then. But keep me informed of my son’s health,” she demands._
> 
> _The woman nods and approaches the bed, changing Daveth’s wet cloth as she gets to work. Cersei arranges her twin brother Jaime to stand guard outside the door, to which he nods in sympathy. Before Cersei could even step outside, a tiny voice reaches her ears._
> 
> _“Don’t go, Mama… Please…”_
> 
> _Cersei turns and sees Daveth, his little arms slowly reaching out to her as he goes limp again. She struggled not to cry as she walked out of the room, not wanting to show weakness._
> 
> _Many days later, Cersei was overjoyed when she saw Daveth’s condition rapidly improving. The gods of the Seven seemed to have answered her prayers, and within moments the little Prince was back on his feet. Cersei lovingly embraced her son, tears finally falling down her cheeks._ _She quietly thanked the Mother for returning her son to her._
> 
> End of flashback...

**ooOoo**

“No,” Cersei finally answers.

Daveth looks into his mother’s eyes, and nods in approval.

“All the rest of us can do is pray,” Tyrion interrupts. “The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you.”

Cersei looks at her brother, irritated by his plans to accompany Benjen Stark and Jon Snow to the Wall. “I still can’t believe you’re going. It’s ridiculous, even for you.”

“Where’s your sense of wonder?” Tyrion exclaims. “The greatest structure ever built, the intrepid men of the Night’s Watch…” he slowly turns towards Tommen, who giggles at his uncle’s jokingly tone, “the wintry abode of the White Walkers.”

“Tell me you’re not thinking of taking the black,” Jaime asks.

“And go celibate?” he reacts surprised, giving Jaime an 'are you stupid?' look on his face. “The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock. No, I think I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world!”

Jaime laughs in amusement, Myrcella and Tommen giggles, and Daveth merely rolled his eyes. Cersei, however, was not pleased by Tyrion’s vulgar words.

“The children don’t need to hear your filth,” she glares.

Tyrion grins at Myrcella, who grins back.

“Come, children,” Cersei calls out as she leaves the table.

Daveth, Myrcella and Tommen finish their breakfast and accompany their mother into the courtyard. This leaves Jaime alone with Tyrion.

“Even if the boy lives,” Jaime begins, “he’ll be a cripple, a grotesque. Give me a good clean death any day.”

Tyrion shakes his head in disapproval. “Speaking for the grotesques, I’d have to disagree. Death is so final, whereas life… life is full is possibilities. I hope the boy does wake. I’d be very interested to hear what he has to say.”

“My dear brother,” Jaime says quietly, “there are times you make me wonder whose side you’re on.”

“My dear brother,” Tyrion feigns hurt, “you wound me. You know how much I love my family.”

A servant brings Tyrion a mug of beer while he keeps eating with Jaime.

* * *

**In Bran’s room…**

* * *

 Bran remains in bed, unconscious. Catelyn remains by her son’s bedside, still working on a prayer wreath. It is evident that she looks tired and her hair appears to be slightly unkempt. Queen Cersei suddenly enters. Catelyn looks up when she hears Cersei enter, and hastily gets up to bow.

“Please,” Cersei dismisses.

“If I knew you were coming, I would have dressed more appropriately, Your Grace,” Catelyn says.

“This is your home. I’m your guest.”

Cersei shifts her gaze to Bran.

“Handsome one, isn’t he?” she says, remembering how Daveth looked at Bran’s age. “I almost lost my first boy. He was a fighter too… fought every day to beat the fever that almost took him.”

After a brief pause, Cersei looks away as old memories come back.

“Forgive me. It’s the last thing you need to hear right now.”

Catelyn, meanwhile, looks surprised. Daveth almost died?

“I never knew…”

“It was years ago,” Cersei says. “Robert was rather somber. Other times he was crazed, beat his hands bloody on the wall. All the things men do to show you how much they care…” Tears start to well in Cersei’s eyes. “Daveth looks just like him. A Baratheon’s strength, a Lannister’s cunning. Such a little thing… When I thought Daveth wasn’t going to live, Robert held me. In my hysterics I screamed and battled, but he held me. My little boy…” She then allowed herself a small smile. “Then a miracle happened. My son was back to his old self. I pray to the Mother every morning and night that she return her child to you as she did for me.”

“I am grateful…” Catelyn thanks.

“Perhaps she’ll listen again,” Cersei remarks as she makes her way out into the courtyard.

Although a part of her still remains uncertain as to what might happen when Bran wakes up. How will it affect her plans? Or her son Daveth? Not long after Queen Cersei leaves to return with her family to King’s Landing, Jon Snow enters the room.

“I came to say goodbye to Bran,” he says.

“You’ve said it,” Catelyn curtly replies, not bothering to look at Jon.

He lowers his head as he kneels before Bran’s bedside.

“I wish I could be here when you wake up,” Jon says to his unconscious younger half-brother. “I’m going north with Uncle Benjen. I’m taking the black. I know we always talked about seeing the Wall together, but you’ll be able to come visit me at Castle Black when you’re better. I’ll know my way around by then. I’ll be a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. We can go out walking beyond the Wall, if you’re not afraid.”

Jon leans to kiss Bran’s forehead, praying that he will wake soon. Catelyn stares with intense heat at Jon; she is now crying and looks at him hatefully as Eddard enters the room.

“I want you to leave,” Catelyn tersely orders Jon.

Jon Snow looks between his father and Catelyn with a mournful look on his face, and leaves. Eddard closes the door behind him and goes over to six next to Catelyn.

Catelyn’s tears fall, and her voice breaks. “17 years ago you rode off with Robert Baratheon. You came back a year later with another woman’s son. And now you’re leaving again…”

“I have no choice,” Eddard tries to explain, but Catelyn refuses to accept it.

“That’s what men always say when honor calls. That’s what you tell your families, tell yourselves,” she chastises her husband. “You  _do_  have a choice. And you’ve made it.”

“Cat…”

“I can’t do it, Ned. I really can’t.”

“You can. You must.”

No more words are said as Eddard Stark exits the room, with Catelyn looking after him as she continues crying. It is now considered official: Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell had accepted King Robert Baratheon’s offer to be the next Hand of the King, and the proposal to marry his daughter Sansa Stark to Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon. He will take half of the Stark family to King’s Landing while the other half remains in Winterfell. No matter how many times Catelyn urged her husband not to go, she felt let down as Eddard was now leaving for a third time. This time she isn’t even sure if Ned will even come back at all.

* * *

After bidding farewell to his half-brother, Robb Stark goes to the main gate to see off Daveth as the royal family is scheduled to return to the capital with his father and his household guard in tow.

“So, this is it.”

Daveth nods. “It would appear so,” he says as he extends his hand. “Perhaps someday, once things quiet down, we’ll meet again.”

Robb gave a curt nod and shook the young royal’s hand. “I meant what I said earlier, Daveth. Be good to my sister, you hear?”

“You have my word.”

With that Daveth mounted his horse and joined the carriage, riding off to rendezvous with the others. The ride down the Kingsroad was uneventful. A new journey was now laid before him, and many challenges are on the horizon…


	6. The Trident

* * *

**On the Kingsroad…**

* * *

Whilst on the journey south back to King’s Landing, the group stopped for a quick rest in the Barrowlands along the Kingsroad. King Robert had been galloping ahead, driving his huge black steed hard as Eddard Stark galloped alongside him trying to keep up. They soon took off across rolling plains. By then the guard had fallen back a small distance, safely out of earshot, but still Robert refused to slow down. Overlooking a plain open meadow, Robert had already set up a mini table full of wine and food. The King took a moment to relieve himself against a tree, crested at a low ridge before pulling up his pants and making his way towards the table.

“Gods,” Robert swore, laughing as he sat down, “this is country! I’ve half a mind to leave them all behind and keep going. I swear, Ned, this creeping along is enough to drive a man mad.”

Eddard smiled. “I’ve half a mind to go with you.”

King Robert was never a patient man.

“That damned ‘carriage’, my son’s insistence that I 'maintain a steady pace so the rest of our family can keep up'…” he complained, “I swear if have to listen to it creaking, groaning one more time… Seven hells! If that wretched thing so much as breaks another axle, I’m going to chop it to little pieces, burn it down and Cersei can walk the rest of the way!” As soon as Robert finished venting, he leaned in towards Eddard. “What do you say, Ned? Just you and me on the Kingsroad, swords at our sides, a couple of tavern wenches to warm our beds tonight?”

“You should have asked me that 20 years ago. We have responsibilities now, Robert… to the realm, our children. I to my wife and you to your Queen. We are not boys anymore.”

“There were wars to fight, women to marry…” Robert grumbled. “More’s the pity. Never had the chance to be young.”

“I recall a few chances,” Eddard says, scratching his beard slightly.

Robert let out a wheezing laugh. “There was that one… Oh, what was her name?” he thinks. “That common girl of yours? Becca? With the great big tits you could bury your face in.”

“Bessie,” Eddard corrected him. “She was one of yours.”

“Bessie! Thank the gods for Bessie and her tits.”

Eddard chuckled, before Robert brought up something he didn’t want to hear again.

“Yours was… uh, Aleena? No. You told me once. Err… Meryl? Your bastard’s mother?”

“Wylla,” Eddard replied with cool courtesy.

“That’s it,” Robert exclaimed, extending his finger in acknowledgment. “She must have been a rare wench to make Lord Eddard Stark forget his honor. You never told me what she looked like.”

Eddard was not amused and shifted in his seat uncomfortably, his mouth tightening in slight annoyance. “Nor will I. Just leave it be, Robert, for the love you say you bear me. I dishonored myself that day and I dishonored my wife, the sight of gods and men.”

“Gods have mercy, you scarcely knew Cat.”

“I had taken her to wife. She was carrying my child.”

“We were at war, Ned. None of us knew if we were gonna go back home again. You’re too hard on yourself. You always have been. I swear if I weren’t your King, you’d have hit me already.”

“The worst thing about your coronation… I’ll never get to hit you again.”

“Trust me, that’s not the worst thing.” Robert said as he pulled a sealed-up paper from his belt and handed it to Eddard. “There was a rider in the night.”

Eddard unsealed the document with trepidation and carefully looked it over, initially thinking of his wife’s sister Lysa and her accusation – to his surprise, it didn’t concern the widow Arryn.

“Daenerys Targaryen has wed some Dothraki horselord. What of it? Shall we send a wedding gift?”

“A knife, perhaps,” Robert frowned, “a good sharp one, and a bold man to wield it.”

Eddard wasn’t surprised; Robert’s hatred of House Targaryen was a madness that plagued him. He remembered the heated exchanged almost eighteen years ago when his father-in-law Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock presented the corpses of Prince Rhaegar’s wife Elia Martell of Dorne and their young children Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon in front of everyone as proof of loyalty to the new King. Eddard called it murder; Robert called it war. When he protested that the young children were no more than babes, his newly-crowned King had merely replied: “I see no babes. Only dragonspawn.”

Not even Lord Jon Arryn, who fostered both Robert and Eddard at the Vale when they were children, had been able to calm them down. Eddard stormed out that very day in a cold rage to fight the last battles of the rebellion alone, lifting the siege of Storm’s End and routing the remnants of Targaryen loyalists near the Tower of Joy. It only took the death of Eddard’s sister and Robert’s betrothed, Lyanna Stark, to reconcile the two men; the grief they had shared over her passing.

This time, however, Eddard learned to keep his temper in check.

“She’s little more than a child.”

Robert’s mouth grew hard. “And how long will this one remain innocent? Soon enough that child will spread her legs and start breeding.”

“Tell me we’re not speaking of this."

“Oh, it’s unspeakable to you?” Robert roared and pointed an angry finger at Eddard. “What her father did to your family… That was unspeakable! What Rhaegar Targaryen did to your sister… the woman I loved! I’ll kill every Targaryen I get my hands on.”

Eddard knew better than to defy King Robert when the wrath was on him. If the years had no quenched Robert’s thirst for revenge, then none of his words would help.

“You can’t get your hands on this one, can you?” he said quietly.

“This Khal Drogo, it’s said he has 100,000 men in his horde.”

“Even a million Dothraki are no threat to the realm, as long as they remain on the other side of the Narrow Sea. They have no ships, Robert.”

The Stag King shook his head in disagreement. “There are still those in the Seven Kingdoms who call me 'Usurper.’ If the Targaryen boy Viserys crosses with a Dothraki horde at his back, the scum will join him.”

“He will not cross,” Eddard said. “And if by chance he does, we’ll throw him back into the sea.”

“There’s a war coming, Ned,” Robert says calmly, looking into the sky. “I don’t know when, I don’t know who we’ll be fighting, but it’s coming.”

* * *

**At the Inn at the Crossroads…**

* * *

Arya Stark was having a bad day. Among those traveling with her was her older sister Sansa, Septa Mordane, Beth and Jeyne Poole. Since they were resting at the Crossroads Inn, the Septa decided that now was the time to practice their knitting. Arya frowned deeply as she looked at her stitches. They were crooked again. She glanced over to see Sansa and noticed her needlework was exquisite by comparison before her sister was allowed to leave the room early to take her direwolf Lady on a morning stroll.

_'Sansa has such fine, delicate hands,’_  Arya recalls Septa Mordane telling their mother.  _'Arya has the hands of a blacksmith.’_

Arya glanced furtively across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa paid her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when Queen Cersei brought Myrcella to join them. Arya thought Myrcella’s stitches appeared to look crooked, as well, but felt her great irritation rise from the way Septa Mordane was cooing towards Princess Myrcella.

She wanted to scream. “Here,” Arya said as she surrendered her work to Septa Mordane.

The septa examined the fabric. “Arya, Arya, Arya,” she said. “This will not do. This will not do at all.”

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes, abruptly pushing herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.

“Young lady, come back here!” Septa Mordane called after Arya. “Don’t you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You’ll shame us all!”

Arya stopped at the door and turned back, biting her lip. The tears were running down her cheeks now as she managed a stiff little bow to Myrcella.

“By your leave, m'lady.”

Myrcella briefly blinked at Arya before nodding her head in sympathy of the girl’s plight. The Princess knew her manners and always did what her mother and older brother (mostly her brother) had instructed her to do.

“Just where do you think you are going, Arya?” The septa demanded.

Arya glared at her. “I’m going to practice swordfighting,” she said smugly, taking a brief satisfaction in the shock on Septa Mordane’s face. Then she whirled and made her exit, running out as fast as her feet would take her.

Her direwolf Nymeria stood waiting for her mistress, bounding to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. The wolf pup loved Arya, even if no one else did. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. Even if Catelyn had forbid it, Arya would glady take the wolf with her to needlework regardless.

Nymeria nipped eagerly at her leash as Arya untied her, licking her ear – causing Arya to giggle. By now Septa Mordane would have sent word to Catelyn. If she went to her room, Arya wouldn’t be found. She instead had something else in mind; the boys were practicing in the yard near the banks of the Trident.

“Come,” Arya whispered to Nymeria. She got up and ran, the wolf coming hard at her heels.

* * *

Sansa Stark was given permission to be excused from her needling with Septa Mordane’s praise to take her direwolf Lady on a stroll. She already looked her best, having already brushed out her long auburn hair until it shone and was wearing her nicest blue silks. Sansa had been looking forward to today for more than a week. It was a great honor to ride with Queen Cersei Lannister, and besides, Prince Daveth Baratheon might be there.

Her betrothed! She was going to marry the Crown Prince and heir to the Iron Throne! She would soon be Daveth’s queen, his queen! Just thinking about it made Sansa blush with glee. She didn’t really know Daveth yet, nor he her, but she was already in love with him. Tall, handsome and strong, to Sansa, Daveth “the Oathkeeper” Baratheon seemed to appear out of nowhere – someone who existed only in fairytales about princes and knights. The only thing that scared her was the thought of whether or not Daveth would like her.

_'Just look pretty,’_  she told herself.  _'Gods, behave yourself…!’_

All Sansa wanted was for things to be nice and pretty, the way there were in the songs. The Crossroads Inn was bustling with 400 people in addition to her father’s household and freeriders who joined them on the road. The air had been damp and clammy, the pathway was so narrow they couldn’t make camp at night so they had to stop here. Huge flowers bloomed in the mud and floated on pools of stagnant water.

Lady brushed against Sansa’s leg. She scratched her direwolf’s ears the way she liked and gave Lady a quick little hug; Lady licked her cheek, making Sansa giggle. The kennelmaster at Winterfell once told her that an animal takes after its master. As she neared the center of the camp, a crowd had gathered around the royal carriage. Anxious to see, Sansa permitted Lady to clear a path through the crowd. When she got closer, several of Queen Cersei’s handmaidens caught Sansa’s eyes.

_'So pretty!’_  she thought with excitement.

***BUMP!***

Sansa briefly stumbled backwards and Lady began to growl. The person she bumped into seemed to feel the weight of her gaze. Slowly, he turned his head to face her.

“Pardon me, ser,” Sansa apologized.

The man said nothing as he continued staring at her, with terror as overwhelming suddenly filled Sansa. She stepped backwards and bumped into someone else. Strong hands grasped her shoulders, and for a moment Sansa thought it was her father but when she turned it was the burned face of Prince Joffrey Baratheon’s bodyguard Sandor Clegane, looking down at her.

“Do I frighten you so much, girl?” Sandor asked mockingly, his voice rasping. “Or is it him there making you shake? He frightens me too. Look at that face.”

Sansa returns to the person she accidently bumped into. “I’m sorry if I offended you, ser,” she apologized again.

Again, the man said nothing – cold eyes still staring at Sansa before coolly walking away.

“Why won’t he speak to me?”

“He hasn’t been very talkative these last 20 years,” he says before leaning closer. “Not since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers.”

“I’m afraid he only speaks with his sword now,” someone says. The voice belonged to none other than Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon himself.

The Prince was here! As the Oathkeeper made his presence known, Sansa turned to Daveth and smiled warmly. Tall, clean, handsome, and well-groomed, his attire consisted of royal crimson wool and black leather with gold embroidery. Daveth motions his head towards the man Sansa met earlier.

“Think nothing of it. Ser Illyn Payne has a fearsome aspect since he was named the King’s Justice.”

Sansa tilts her head slightly in confusion.

“The royal executioner,” he elaborates. Noticing her discomfort, Daveth politely cups Sansa’s chin. “What is it, sweet thing? Does the Hound frighten you?” He looks up at Sandor. “That will be all, Clegane. You’re scaring my betrothed. Go find my little brother and have him escorted back to the inn. No excuses. The Queen has been looking for him all day.”

Ever faithful, Sandor bowed and slid away quietly through the crowd to find Prince Joffrey. Sansa felt relief wash over her as she is now face-to-face with her betrothed.

“Are you well, m'lady?” Daveth inquires.

Sansa finally found her words. “I am, my sweet prince,” she explains.

“I am pleased to hear it, however irregular the manner of our meeting this morning was,” Daveth said formally. He then looks down and notices Lady smelling him. “Your… direwolf, I presume?”

“Yes, my prince,” Sansa nods. “Her name is Lady.”

Daveth, still treading caution when confronting a direwolf, slowly held out his hand. Lady sniffed and gave the Crown Prince a lick. Daveth interpreted it as a sign of acceptance and scratched Lady’s ears; the direwolf panting in approval.

“She likes you."

“It would appear so,” Daveth responded. He took a moment to look up, noticing the sun breaking through the clouds to shine brightly onto the earth. “Will you walk with me?” Daveth asks, courteously offering his arm as a hook to which Sansa gladly accepted, holding onto to the prince closely.

“Stay, Lady,” Sansa called out to her direwolf – which Lady hesitantly obeyed as she let out a small whine.

As Daveth led her away from the inn, Sansa’s spirit took flight. A whole day with her betrothed!

* * *

**Near the Trident…**

* * *

The air was warm and heavy with the scent of flowers, and the woods here had a gently beauty that Sansa had never seen in the North. She and Daveth sat near the riverbanks of the Trident, catching a few fresh trout when they grew hungry. Still taking the rest of the day of leisure, Sansa never broke eye contact with Daveth as he poured her a cup of wine.

“You look beautiful, m'lady,” Daveth spoke up.

Sansa had the grace to blush. “My prince is very kind. Thank you,” she said, possibly feeling a little dizzy from the wine. “Shouldn’t we be starting back soon?” she asked.

“We will soon,” Daveth promised.

***SMACK!***

***SMACK!***

***SMACK!***

Floating through the woods, a kind of wooden clattering reached the pair’s ears.

“What’s that sound?” Daveth asks, raising an eyebrow in curiosity.

Sansa heard it too. “I don’t know,” she said. It made her nervous, though. “Someone’s there.”

“I know. Just stay close to me, alright?” Daveth said as he gripped the sword on its sheath. Slightly drawing his blade, it had a rather unique design foreign to Westeros.

Beyond in a clearing overlooking the river, Daveth and Sansa came upon a boy and a girl playing knights. Their swords were wooden sticks, broom handles from the look of them and they were playfully rushing across the grass, swinging at each other. The boy was a year older, a head taller, and much stronger, and he was pressing the attack. The girl, a scrawny thing in soiled leathers, was dodging and managing to get her stick in the way of most of the boy’s blows, but not all.

“I’ll get you!” the boy exclaims.

When she tried to lunge at him, he caught her stick with his own, swept it aside, and slid his wood down hard on her fingers. She cried out and lost her weapon. It turns out to be Arya Stark practicing her sword work with Mycah, the son of the party’s butcher.

“Arya!” Sansa called out incredulously.

Prince Daveth rolled his eyes, groaning quietly as he put his sword back in its sheath. The boy looked around, wide-eyed and startled, and dropped his stick in the grass. Arya glared at them, sucking on her knuckles to take the sting out.

“Go away!” she shouted back at them. “What are you doing here? Leave us alone.”

Daveth was amused by this one’s spirit; glancing from Arya to Sansa and back again.

“Let me guess: she’s your sister?”

Sansa nodded, blushing in embarrassment.

“Boy,” Daveth called out to Mycah, examining him up and down. “What is your name?”

Mycah recognized the Crown Prince and averted his eyes. “M-Mycah, m'lord.”

“He’s the butcher’s boy,” Sansa said.

“He’s my friend,” Arya said sharply. “You leave him alone.”

Daveth held up a hand. “Calm down, girl. I’m not here to cause anyone trouble,” he said as he looked at Mycah. “Especially your friend here.”

Mycah stood there, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Now… Mycah, was it?” Daveth begun. “I trust that a lad like yourself has been going easy on the girl?”

“She asked me to, m'lord,” Mycah said. “I swear.”

Sansa had only to glance at Arya and see the flush on her sister’s face to know the boy was telling the truth. Daveth sighs, not wanting to waste more of his time.

“I believe you. Just try not to get too carried away, alright?”

Mycah allowed small smile and nodded, “M'lord is very kind to show me such lenience.”

Arya looked at Daveth in confusion, not quite certain what to make of him. But before she could resume her play with Mycah, someone else made their presence known.

“So this is where you’re at,” a voice called out.

Daveth immediately recognized that voice and tensed up, gripping his handle once more. It was his younger brother, Prince Joffrey Baratheon; and judging by the look on his face, he had seen everything. And something told the Crown Prince that conflict was inevitable.

“And I see a butcher’s boy who wants to be a knight?” Joffrey said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Show me. Show my brother how good you are.”

Daveth could tell by Joffrey’s stance that he had his fair share of wine, making him rather unruly and wild; a rather dangerous combination.

“I thought I told you to return to the inn, Joffrey,” he said in a calm yet slightly irritated tone.

“I got bored,” Joffrey brushes him off rather rudely, clearly in no mood to listen. “Besides, you’ve had your fair share of fun, Brother. And it’s only fair that I have mine.”

Daveth wasn’t buying it. He knew trouble was coming. “Not when you voluntarily choose to behave in such a brazen manner. Now enough.”

“Let me think about that,” Joffrey said as he lifted his sword Lion’s Tooth and laid its point on Mycah’s check below the eye. “How about 'no’? Are you going to pick up your sword?” Mycah stood trembling as Joffrey pressed even further. “A common boy hitting a lady’s sister? You know that’s considered a crime, do you know that?”

“It’s only a stick, m'lord,” Mycah shook his head. “It’s not no sword, it’s only a stick.”

“I’m your prince, not your lord. And you are a mere butcher’s boy, nothing else.”

A bright bud of blood blossomed where Joffrey’s sword pressed into Mycah’s flesh, and a slow red line trickled down the boy’s cheek.

“STOP IT!” Arya screamed, grabbing her fallen stick.

Sansa was afraid. “Arya, you stay out of this.”

Daveth had enough. Moving quickly towards the two, he seizes Joffrey by the wrist and moves Lion’s Tooth away from Mycah.

“I said enough, Joffrey!” Daveth warns him.

Joffrey grinned wickedly. “Don’t worry, brother. I won’t hurt him… much,” he said, never taking his eyes off the butcher’s boy as he struggles to free himself.

Then… it happened.

***WHACK!***

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!” Arya went for Joffrey.

Swinging with both hands, Arya hit the back of Joffrey’s head. There was a loud crack as the wood split against the Prince, and then everything happened at once before Sansa’s horrified eyes. Joffrey staggered and whirled around, roaring curses. Mycah ran for the trees as fast as his legs would take him. Joffrey had disarmed Arya of her broken stick and swung again, screaming obscenities, terrible words, filthy words. His eyes were on fire.

“Filthy little bitch!” Joffrey shouts in a fit of rage.

“No, no, stop it! Stop it, all of you! You’re spoiling it! You’re spoiling everything!” Sansa shrieked, but no one was listening. “Stop it, don’t, stop it!” she continued screaming. Sansa didn’t know what to do. She watched helplessly, almost blind from her tears.

Arya, now frightened, darted back and retreated into the woods, but she soon found herself backed against a tree as Joffrey was closing the gap between them and Daveth not too far behind.

“I’ll gut you, you little cunt!” Joffrey shouts as he points Lion’s Tooth inches closer to her face.

Then Daveth reached out and grabbed Joffrey from the back of his collar, and throws him to the side as he places himself in between Arya and his blood-raged brother. He turns to look at a frightened Arya and motions for her to run. The girl immediately nods and runs as fast as her legs could carry her. Upon recovering from his sling across the floor, Joffrey redirects his attention from Arya to Daveth.

“You want a fight, Brother?! YOU JUST GOT ONE!” he cursed and charged towards his older brother, taking a giant swing.

Daveth, being the older and more experienced fighter, easily sidestepped to the right – still maintaining a firm grip on his sword – but again refused to unsheathe it. Joffrey stumbled regaining his balance and turned to charge again, only to miss once more. He continued to swing wildly, and the more Daveth dodged, the angrier Joffrey got.

“Stand down, Joffrey!” Daveth shouts.

“I’ll kill you!” Joffrey violently threatens.

Swing after swing, miss after miss. Daveth easily predicted Joffrey’s movements and parried before kicking Joffrey hard in chest, sending the golden-haired Baratheon flying backwards as he landed on the ground with a loud thud.

“I said… stand… DOWN!” Daveth shouts again, beginning to feel his patience wearing thin. He was tempted to draw out his sword, but fought to keep his emotions in check. He was fighting his own brother.

But before Joffrey could charge again, a grey blur flashed past him, and suddenly Nymeria was there, leaping in the air and clamped her jaws around Joffrey’s sword arm. The steel fell from his fingers as the wolf knocked him off his feet. They rolled in the grass, the direwolf snarling and ripping at the man who threatened her mistress.

“Get it off!” Joffrey screamed, shrieking in pain. “Get it off!”

Daveth relented, but before he could make a move, Arya came back as quickly as she could.

“Nymeria!” Arya called out.

The direwolf let go of Joffrey and moved to Arya’s side. Prince Joffrey lay in the grass, whimpering, cradling his mangled arm. His shirt was soaked in blood. Daveth walked over to his fallen brother, his face showing a display of disappointment towards Joffrey.

“No. Please don’t,” Joffrey whined in a scared whimpery sound. “Don’t hurt me. Brother, please…!”

Daveth glanced at Arya, who picked up Lion’s Tooth where it had fallen with both hands and stood over Joffrey holding it.

“Girl,” he spoke in an authoritative tone.

Arya merely looked up at Daveth, still seething with rage at Joffrey.

“Enough,” Daveth said plainly.

Arya angrily relented, whirling around and heaving Joffrey’s sword into the air, putting every ounce of strength into the throw. The blue steel flashed in the sun as the sword spun out over the river. It hit the water and vanished with a splash. Joffrey moaned, his eyes closed in pain and breathed raggedly. Arya ran off once more, with Nymeria loping at her heels.

After they had gone, Daveth turned to face Sansa.

“Go to the holdfast and get help. Now.”

Sansa sobbed, yet obeyed and ran back. Now alone, Daveth looked down at Joffrey.

“I see that your arrogance and stupidity continues to know no bounds. All these years, and you still go out of your way to cause trouble,” he coolly berates, reaching out to take Joffrey’s arm.

His green eyes snapped open and looked up, and there was nothing but loathing there, nothing but the vilest contempt.

“Don’t touch me!” Joffrey spat at him.

Shaking his head, Daveth grabbed Joffrey’s forearm and yanked him up to his feet, causing Joffrey to yelp in pain as he was being dragged away.

“You will never display such reckless behavior like that in front of me again,” Daveth stated not caringly. “And you will remember your place, Illborn.”

As he dragged his injured brother back to the holdfast to get his wounds tended to, Daveth’s blue eyes coolly started into the distance. Incidents like this were bound to happen repeatedly. And whence it happened, it’ll only serve to force Daveth’s hand into action… even if it’s against his own blood.


	7. The Kingsroad

* * *

**At the Inn at the Crossroads…**

* * *

Tensions were rising, burning hot and heavy. Eddard Stark took a search party to find his missing daughter Arya, but was recalled to the nearest holdfast as soon as word reached him that Arya was found… by Lannister soldiers! Once inside the audience chamber was crowded with Baratheon soldiers, Lannister soldiers, and Stark soldiers, all of them crammed against each other. Eddard pushed his way to the front. King Robert was slumped in a chair at the front, his face closed and sullen. Queen Cersei and Joffrey stood beside him. The Golden Lioness had her hand on her second son’s shoulder. Thick silken bandages still covered the boys arm. Daveth, meanwhile, leaned against the nearest wall with his arms crossed.

Arya stood in the center of the room, every eye being upon her. Eddard immediately went to her, his boots stomping on the stone floor.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Arya trembled as she embraced her father.

Eddard looked her over. “Are you hurt?” he asked concerned.

“No,” she shook her head.

Eddard nodded and rose to face the Robert.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, his voicing loudly ringing. “Why was my daughter not brought to me at once?”

Eddard’s eyes swept across the room barely able to contain his fury; his own men were few, the rest were Lannister men… and hostile.

“How dare you speak to your King in that manner,” Queen Cersei answered.

At that, Robert stirred. “Quiet, woman!” he snapped, straightening in his seat. “I’m sorry, Ned. I never meant to frighten the girl. But we need to get this business done quickly.”

“And what business is that?” Eddard put ice in his voice.

Cersei stepped forward. “Your girl and that butcher’s boy attacked my sons,” she accused. “That animal of hers nearly tore Joffrey’s arm off.”

Daveth blinked.  _‘Of course you of all people would say that, mother…’_  he thought bitterly.  _'Because that is NOT what happened!’_

Earlier this morning Daveth had a heated argument with the Queen, arguing over what had occurred at the riverbanks of the Trident.

**ooOoo**

_“Joffrey is your brother!” Cersei scolded, her cold eyes focused on her eldest son. “How could you let that girl and her beast do that to him?”_

_Daveth met his mother’s cold eyes with his own._

_“I had the situation firmly under control until he screwed everything up in the first place, mother. As for the direwolf, it came out of nowhere. As I said, if he hadn’t been stupid enough to brazenly threaten the beast’s mistress, then perhaps Joffrey wouldn’t have had his arm bloody and mauled. He’s lucky enough to even keep it.”_

_“And you think that justifies your assault on him earlier?” she narrowed her eyes._

_“So now it’s fine if Joffrey starts trouble and gets away with only a few kind words, but it’s fine to blame me for simply doing my duty? For defending myself?” Daveth was livid. “I gave him explicit commands to cease his recklessness, but he chose not to heed it. Joffrey never listens to anyone, and you damn well know it.”_

_“Watch your language when speaking to your mother,” Cersei warned._

_“Then act like one,” Daveth retorted. “Because if you won’t keep that little monster tied to a short leash, then I’ll do it myself.”_

_Cersei was stunned by her son’s attitude. He had never spoken back to her like that before. But before Cersei could argue even further, Daveth had already turned his back and marched out of the room._

_“On that, you have my word,” was all he said._

**ooOoo**

“That’s not true!” Arya spoke loudly. “She just… bit him a little. He was hurting Mycah.”

“Joff told us what happened. You and that butcher’s boy beat him with clubs while you set your wolf on him.”

“That’s not what happened!”

“Yes it is!” Joffrey insisted. “They all attacked me, and she threw my sword in the river!”

Eddard noticed that he did not so much as glance at Arya as he spoke.

“Liar!” Arya yelled.

“Shut up!” Joffrey yelled back.

“ENOUGH!” Robert roared, rising from his seat with his voice thick of irritation. Silence fell as Robert glowered at Arya and Joffrey through his thick beard. “He tells me one thing, she tells me another! Seven hells what am I to make of this?” he spoke as Robert turned his gaze towards his eldest son. “Boy!” he bellowed out, “Come here!”

Daveth unfolded his arms and stepped away from the wall before making his way to the center of the room. All eyes were on him now; Arya looked up at Daveth, her eyes peering at the back of his head as if silently demanding his support.

“Your Grace,” Daveth coolly spoke up, giving a quick bow.

Robert shook his head. “Now, your brother and the girl all gave their side of the story. Both say that you were at the scene when it all happened,” he said before calming himself. “Now, tell me everything.”

Daveth calmly composed himself.

“I was there, yes,” he began his testimony. Robert, Cersei, Joffrey and Arya all looked at the Crown Prince. “I was busying taking a morning stroll near the banks of the Trident. Lord Stark’s daughter and the butcher’s boy were playing. Nothing serious like rough housing, I assure you. Children often at times have a tendency to reenact dreams of being knights and practice swordplay with nothing but sticks. At first it all seemed to be going rather well,” he said before glancing at Joffrey, “that is until Prince Joffrey arrived at the scene.”

Joffrey was pale as his brother continued speaking.

“I can confirm with what Arya had already told you: the Prince had indeed inflicted a minor wound on the butcher's boy’s face as he continued to disregard my calls for him to stand down, and can dispute the notion of Joffrey’s accusations of him being beaten with clubs. If my brother’s testimony were indeed true, then where are the bruises? Where are the bumps? Where are the welts? If he really was beaten with clubs, the marks on his face and body would be visible for all to see. All he ended up getting was that bite on his arm from Arya’s direwolf, who only acted in defense of her mistress.”

Cersei frowned deeply. Joffrey turns his head to the side in shame. Arya felt a surge of confidence as she gave Joffrey a 'Told you so!' glance before Daveth quickly turned his gaze towards Arya.

“Now it is true that he did threaten the butcher’s boy, however,” he pointed out, “I would like to point out that as I had already moved to take appropriate measures to prevent unnecessary violence from escalating further, Arya had already taken the stick she was using to hit Joffrey as I was escorting him away.”

Arya’s eyes widened. Joffrey felt the need to grin, but remained silent.

“Had the girl not done so, I believe this unpleasantness would have never occurred in the first place. The overwhelming need to protect her friend, however understandable and misguided, caused her to impulsively lash out and strike a Prince of royal blood.” Daveth returned his eyes to Robert. “As such, I can conclude that both sides were to blame as each contributed the incident.”

Robert studied his son closely, listening to every word with his fist pressed against his chin. As Daveth finished giving his side of the story and was done talking, Robert nodded and waved his hand. He looked like a man who wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Where’s your other daughter, Ned?” Robert asked.

“In bed asleep,” he answered.

Cersei shook her head. “She’s not. Sansa, come here, darling,” she calls out.

Eddard turned to see Sansa hesitantly stepping forward. She was dressed in blue velvet trimmed with white, a silver chain around her neck. Her thick auburn hair had been brushed until it shone. She blinked at her sister, then at the two princes.

“Your daughter was there as well,” Cersei said. “Perhaps she would care to shed some light on all of this?”

Robert sighed and massaged his temple, feeling a headache quickly coming. He was going to be here for quite a while. “Now, child… The four of you were at the Trident when all this was going on. Tell me what happened. Tell it all and tell it true. It’s a grave crime to lie to a King.”

Sansa looked as though she wanted to bolt. “I…” she stammered, taking occasional glances between her family and her betrothed’s family. “I don’t know. I don’t remember. Everything happened so fast, I…”

Daveth lowered his head in disappointment. Arya, on the other hand, was furious.

“You rotten!” she shrieked, knocking Sansa to the ground, pummeling her and pulling her hair. “Liar! Liar! Liar! Liar!”

“Arya!” Sansa screamed as she struggled to free herself.

“Stop it!” Eddard shouted at his daughters. The captain of his household guard, Jory Cassel, pulled Arya off Sansa, kicking. Sansa was pale and shaking as Eddard lifted her back to her feet. “That’s enough of that! Stop! Arya!”

“She’s as wild as that animal of hers,” Cersei said. “I want her punished.”

“Cersei, look at her,” Robert swore. “She’s a child. What would you have me do? Whip her through the streets? Damn it, children fight. It’s over.”

The Queen was furious. “Joffrey will bear these scars for the rest of his life.”

As his parents were arguing, Daveth spotted a hooded individual hiding amongst the Lannister soldiers. He nodded and motioned for them to move, luckily no one even noticed. King Robert Baratheon looked at his second son.

“You let that little girl disarm you? Perhaps this will teach you a lesson,” he said to Joffrey disappointingly before returning his sights to Daveth. “That’ll be all, boy,” he spoke, pleased with Daveth’s testimony as he looked at Eddard. “Ned, see to it that your daughter is disciplined. I’ll do the same with my son.”

Eddard breathed a sigh of relief. “Gladly, Your Grace.”

Robert started to walk away, but Cersei wasn’t done. “And what of the direwolf?” she called out. “What of the beast that savaged your son?”

“Ah, seven hells…” Daveth muttered under his breath, being as quiet as possible.

The King stopped, turned back, frowning. “I’d forgot the damned wolf.”

“We found no trace of the direwolf, Your Grace,” one of the Lannister soldiers spoke up.

“So be it."

“We have another wolf,” Cersei said. Her voice was very quiet, but her green eyes shone with triumph.

 _'So you’d let another take the fall? One who had nothing to do with what happened?’_  Daveth quickly realized his mother’s intention.

It took everyone else a moment to comprehend her words, but when they did, Robert shrugged irritably.

“As you will.”

“Robert, you can’t mean it,” Eddard protested.

“A direwolf’s no pet,” Robert said, clearly in no mood for more arguments. “Get her a dog. She’ll be happier for it.”

At that moment, it was when Sansa Stark finally seemed to comprehend what they were talking about. Her eyes widened with fright.

“He doesn’t mean Lady, does he?” she asked her father, seeing the truth on his face. “No. No, no, not Lady! Lady didn’t bite anyone! She’s good!”

“Lady wasn’t there,” Arya shouted angrily. “You leave her alone!”

Sansa looked from her father to Daveth. “Please, stop them,” she clutched both his arms pleadingly, “please, don’t let them do it, please, please, it wasn’t Lady!” she started to cry.

Daveth said nothing. “Lord Stark…” he finally spoke up.

All Eddard could do was take his daughter into his arms and hold Sansa while she wept. He looked across the room at Robert, his old friend. Gently disengaging himself from Sansa’s grasp, Eddard spoke up in a voice cold and sharp as steel.

“Is this your command… Your Grace?”

Robert looked at Eddard with flat, dead eyes and left without a word, his footsteps heavy as lead. Silence filled the hall.

“I’m sorry for all of this, Lord Stark,” Daveth said. “Really. But I’m afraid this is a problem that won’t simply fade away with words alone.”

Eddard looked at the Crown Prince in disbelief, all the weariness of the past four days still returning to him.

“Where is the beast?” Cersei Lannister asked when her husband was gone. Beside her, Prince Joffrey was smiling.

“Chained up outside, Your Grace,” said one of the Lannister soldiers.

“Ser Ilyn, do me the honor.”

The King’s Justice stepped forward, only to be pushed back by Eddard.

“No. Jory… take the girls to their rooms. If it must be done, then I’ll do it myself.” The words tasted of bile in his throat as he forced them out.

Cersei looked at him suspiciously. “Is this some trick?”

All eyes were staring at him, even Daveth’s, but it was Sansa’s look that cut.

“The wolf is of the North,” he said sternly. “She deserves better than one of your southern butchers.”

Eddard left the room with his eyes burning and his daughter’s wails echoing in his ears, still can’t find himself believing he would actually be forced to do it.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

“Lady,” Eddard said, tasting the name. He never paid much attention to the names of the direwolves his children picked for them, but he knew that Sansa had chosen well. Lady was the smallest of the litter, the prettiest, the most gentle and trusting.

On his way to the chained up wolf, Eddard saw Sandor Clegane and his riders strolling through the road, back from their hunt. There was something slung over the back of his horse, or someone. He pulled back the cloak, dreading the words he would have to find for Arya. It was the butcher’s boy, Mycah, his lifeless body covered in dried blood. He had been cut almost in half from shoulder to waist by some blow struck from above.

“The butcher’s boy… You rode him down?” Eddard asks.

The Hound's eyes seemed to glitter through the steel of his dog’s-head helm. “He ran…” he said looking at Eddard’s face and laughed. “Not very fast.”

Disgusted, Eddard shook the image from his head and continued to find Lady… only to discover the chain keeping Lady in place was broken and the direwolf missing. A small trace of blood left a trail.

“What happened here?” he ponders surprised.

He followed the trail of blood, and found the trace. A wolf laid in a puddle of its own blood.

Eddard examines the body more closely. “Something’s not right…” he concludes. “This wolf is a bit smaller…”

It didn’t take long for Lord Eddard Stark to determine this was not in fact Lady, but another animal’s life had been taken in Lady’s place.

“No need to worry about the beast, Lord Stark…” the cloaked individual announced quietly.

Eddard turned around. “Who are you?”

“Who I am doesn’t matter, my lord. What matters is that the Crown Prince will be pleased.”

“Daveth did this?” Eddard realizes. “This isn’t the direwolf…”

The man in question shook his head.

“It wouldn’t be the first time the Oathkeeper defied the King’s orders. He only acts whenever necessary. Most of us in the realm owe him a great many favors. And when he calls on us, we repay our debts and carry out whatever his instructions are thoroughly. With interest, I might add.”

“The King―”

“…will not care even the slightest,” he interrupts. “As for the Queen and the Illborn, however, they will be none the wiser. All they’ll know is that the deed was done.”

* * *

**Back at the inn…**

* * *

Night time befalls the inhabitants. Sansa hadn’t stopped crying since her father left to carry out the King’s order, despite Jeyne Poole’s father Vayon attempt to console her. Even Arya, brooding silently, felt bad for her sister as Sansa finally cried herself to sleep. Daveth stood outside the door, having relayed the news to Jory. The captain of the guard nodded and assured the Crown Prince he will tell them once the time is right. As he walked away, Daveth turned to the shadows – where one of his contacts was waiting.

“It is done, Oathkeeper,” he said.

“And the direwolf?”

“Unharmed, and safely in our custody.”

“Good. Be sure to be as discreet as possible. You know how relentless and cruel the Queen can be when it comes to her children. And if someone so much as catches wind of this, you know what must be done.”

The hooded figure nodded. “Throats slit, heads cut off.”

It was a great risk Daveth was taking, and it was one he was willing to take if it meant doing the right thing.

“And what of Lord Stark?”

“He appears to have some difficulty taking us at our word, but rest assured, my Prince: Ned Stark will come to understand your motives. He will forgive you.”

Daveth shakes his head. “It is not forgiveness I seek. I only do what is necessary for the good of the realm.”

The man nods again. “Of course, my Prince. The realm is deeply indebted to you.”

“I’m sure they are,” Daveth rolled his eyes. “Now go, before people get suspicious.”

“We will await your summons. Good day,” he said before vanishing into the shadows.

Now alone, Daveth left to return to his room as he noticed Eddard making his return. No doubt he intends to break the news himself.

 _'In due time, Lord Stark,’_  he thought,  _'you’ll come to understand; even if your Northern honor and stubborn nature won’t allow it. You’ll see that I have my reasons.’_


	8. Arrival at the Capital

* * *

**At King’s Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms…**

* * *

The royal party reaches King’s Landing, the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. Home to almost more than half a million people, King’s Landing was the largest city in the realm. Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon had already gone ahead of the group en route to the Red Keep via the Gate of the Gods, one of the seven entrances into the capital, all while being greeted by the city’s smallfolk and nobles alike. Some extended their warm welcome to the Oathkeeper, others offered their condolences for what happened to his brother Joffrey.

“Look, mother! It’s the Oathkeeper!”

“Seven blessings to you, Prince Daveth.”

“Welcome home, Prince Daveth!”

“How was your day, my lord?”

“Sorry about your brother, my Prince.”

“Oathkeeper!”

“Your family is always in our thoughts, Oathkeeper.”

Daveth politely bowed his head at the people coming to extend their greetings whilst remaining on his horse, riding through the streets of King’s Landing.

“Some things never change,” Daveth sighs exhausted.

He soon arrives at the gates to the Red Keep, a patrol of the City Watch bowing before Daveth and they soon open the gates for him. As he dismounts, a royal steward arrives to greet him.

“Welcome, Prince Daveth. Grand Maester Pycelle has already called forth a meeting of the Small Council.”

Daveth nodded. “I see. And the others?”

“They’re on their way now, my lord. Shall I tell them to postpone the meeting?”

“That won’t be necessary. It is imperative that the Small Council should not be delayed. I’ll go inform them myself.”

“Understood.”

Before stepping inside, Daveth looks back. “Also, be a good man and extend a proper welcome to the new Hand of the King. He’ll be arriving at the main gate shortly with his household guards.”

The steward nods. “We’ll begin making the necessary arrangements at once, my lord.”

Once that business was taken care of, Daveth sets off to the Small Council chambers in the Red Keep’s Great Hall. The Small Council was the royal institution which serves to advise the King of the Seven Kingdoms and carry out his commands, helping him to govern the kingdoms. The King chairs the council and takes their advice under consideration, but it is he who has the final word. Unfortunately, since King Robert Baratheon was more interested in drinking, whoring and hunting, was notoriously uninterested in matters of governance and only attended three meetings throughout his entire seventeen year reign. As such, Robert let his Small Council govern the kingdoms – with Daveth often presiding over the meetings in his father’s stead these last nine years with the late Lord Hand Jon Arryn advising him.

But that was then. An old Hand; an old life. Now the realm had a new Hand of the King, and it was now time to get things underway for Daveth to ensure this one’s survival. The court politics of King’s Landing can be rather dangerous to the uninitiated after all.

* * *

**At the gates…**

* * *

Eddard Stark rode through the towering bronze doors of the Red Keep sore, tired, hungry, and irritable. He was still on his horse, dreaming of a long hot soak, a roast fowl, and a featherbed, when the king’s steward told him that Grand Maester Pycelle had convened an urgent meeting of the Small Council. The honor of the Hand’s presence was requested as soon as it was convenient.

The royal steward sent by Prince Daveth arrived to greet Eddard.

“Welcome, Lord Stark. The Crown Prince extends his greetings and hospitality. Grand Maester Pycelle has called a meeting of the Small Council. The honor of your presence is requested.”

Eddard was tired. He turned to look at Jory, his daughters Sansa and Arya, along with the rest of his household guard.

“Get the girls settled in,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in time for supper. And Jory, you go with them.”

“Yes, my lord,” Jory obeyed and helped the Stark girls settle in.

“The Prince has given you Lord Arryn’s former chambers in the Tower of the Hand,” the steward said. “If you’d like to change into something more appropriate…”

Eddard gives him a blank stare before taking off his gloves; the steward realizing the Stark patriarch’s disinterest and has him escorted to the Small Council chambers.

* * *

**At the Great Hall of the Red Keep…**

* * *

Eddard Stark walks through the Great Hall, where in front lays the Iron Throne. The seat of power of the ruling royal House of Westeros, where it is said that the legendary Aegon the Conqueror himself had forged the throne itself from the 1,000 swords of his conquered enemies during the War of Conquest and melted down by Aegon’s dragon Balerion the Black Dread.

As he approached Eddard noticed Jaime Lannister lingering in front of the throne.

“Thank the gods you’re here, Stark,” he callously greets. “About time we had some northern leadership.”

“Glad to see you’re protecting the throne,” Eddard replied.

“Sturdy old thing. How many kings’ asses have polished it, I wonder? What’s the line? ‘The King shits and the Hand wipes.’”

Eddard looked at Jaime, eye him up and down.

“Very handsome armor,” he complemented. “Not a scratch on it.”

Jaime smirked with pride and arrogance, feeling quite pleased with himself as a distinguished knight of the Kingsguard. “I know. People have been swinging at me for years, but they always seem to miss.”

“You’ve chosen your opponents wisely then.”

“I have a knack for it. Must be strange for you coming into this room. I was standing right here when it happened. He was very brave, your brother. Your father too. They didn’t deserve to die like that.”

Eddard frowned. He had remembered the atrocities committed during King Aerys II Targaryen’s reign, and when a raven informed him the Mad King brutally executed both his father and older brother on charges of treason without a fair trial.

“But you just stood there and watched,” Eddard remarked coolly.

“500 men just stood there and watched,” Jaime corrected. “All the great knights of the Seven Kingdoms. You think anyone said a word, lifted a finger? No, Lord Stark,” his grin slowly faded, but his smugness remained. “500 men and this room was silent as a crypt. Except for the screams, of course, and the Mad King laughing. And later… When I watched the Mad King die, I remembered him laughing as your father burned… It felt like justice.”

“Is that what you tell yourself at night?” Eddard accused rather curtly. “You’re a servant of justice? That you were avenging my father when you shoved your sword in Aerys Targaryen’s back?”

Jaime was now no longer smug or arrogant. Instead, his facial expression twisted slightly into a deep frown of irritation, anger and humiliation. “Kingslayer”, “Oathbreaker” and “Man without Honor” was Jaime was called by everyone he crossed paths with these past seventeen years. Jaime was still unrepentant about it and felt increasingly frustrated that Eddard still judged him as dishonorable for killing the Mad King, the murder of Eddard’s father Rickard and brother Brandon, and for having the nerve to casually seat himself upon the Iron Throne after the brutal Sack of King’s Landing was through during the final stages of Robert’s Rebellion.

“Tell me,” he challenged. “If I’d stabbed the Mad King in the belly instead of the back, would you admire me more?”

Eddard remained unmoved. “You served him well, when serving was safe.”

As he brushed past him, Jaime silently clenched his knuckles into a tight fist. Every day he’s been forced to endure such mockery from people his House considered inferior.

 _'A lion shouldn’t concern himself with the opinions of the sheep,’_  Jaime thought bitterly.  _'By what right does the wolf judge the lion? By what right?!’_

* * *

**At the Small Council chambers…**

* * *

Eddard finally finds his way to the Small Council chambers where the others are already waiting for him. In attendance, he meets the council members: Lord Petyr “Littlefinger” Baelish, the king’s Master of Coin and a childhood friend of Eddard’s wife Catelyn; Grand Maester Pycelle, the king’s elderly adviser in all matters scientific and academic; Lord Renly Baratheon, the youngest of the three Baratheon brothers and Master of Laws; and Varys, a foreign eunuch from the Free Cities of Lys and the Master of Whisperers (the head of the king’s intelligence network). Also in attendance was Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon, who stood next to the king’s seat at the head of the table, the crowned stage of Baratheon embroidered in gold thread on its pillows.

The chamber was richly furnished. Myrish carpets covered the floor instead of rushes, and in one corner a hundred fabulous beasts cavorted in bright paints on a carved screen from the Summer Isles. The walls were hung with tapestries from Norvos and Qohor and Lys, and a pair of Valyrian sphinxes flanked the door, eyes of polished garnet smoldering in black marble faces.

Varys, the advisor Eddard disliked, accosted him the moment he entered.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted.

“Lord Varys.”

“I was grievously sorry to hear of your troubles on the Kingsroad,” Varys offered his condolences, his hands left powder stains on Eddard’s sleeve and smelling as foul and sweet as flowers on a grave. “Prince Daveth told us everything. We are all praying for Prince Joffrey’s full recovery.”

“A shame you didn’t say a prayer for the butcher’s son,” Eddard replied grimly, which visibly upsets Varys.

He disentangled himself from the eunuch’s grip and crossed the room to where Lord Renly stood by the screen, talking quietly with a short man who could only be Littlefinger. Renly had been a boy of ten when Robert won the throne during the rebellion, but he had grown into a man so like his brother that Eddard found it disconcerting. Whenever he saw him, it was as if the years had slipped away and Robert stood before him, fresh from his victory on the Trident.

“Renly!” Eddard smiled, accepting the younger Baratheon’s hug. “You’re looking well.”

“And you look tired from the road,” Renly replied as he pulled away. “I told them this meeting could wait another day, but…”

“But we have a kingdom to look after,” Petyr finished. “I’ve hoped to meet you for some time, Lord Stark. No doubt Lady Catelyn has mentioned me.”

“She has, Lord Baelish. I understood you knew my brother Brandon as well.”

Petyr gave a weasel-like smile. “All too well. I still carry a token of his esteem from navel to collarbone,” he said as he moved his fingers from his stomach to his torso.

He received his terrible injury when he foolishly challenged Brandon Stark to a duel for Catelyn’s hand in marriage after her betrothal was announced by her father Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun. Although he survived (at Catelyn’s behest since she still thought of Petyr as a little brother), Petyr’s insolence caused him to be banished from Riverrun and sent back to the Fingers at the Vale.

“Perhaps you chose a wrong man to duel with,” Eddard joked in a chill tone, hoping that would end it. The sly arrogance of Baelish’s comment clearly rankled him and he had no time with Petyr’s games of dueling with words.

But Petyr shook his head in amusement. “It wasn’t the man I chose, my lord. It was Catelyn Tully. A woman worth fighting for, I’m sure you’ll agree.”

Daveth, watching the two men bickering back and forth, merely groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance.

 _'Gods have mercy, Littlefinger, would you please shut up?’_  Daveth thought irritatingly.

“I humbly beg your pardon, my Lord Stark,” Pycelle interrupted.

“Grand Maester,” Eddard greeted.

Pycelle smiled gently from his seat. Wispy strands of white hair fringed the broad bald dome of his forehead above a kindly face. “How many years has it been? You were a young man.”

His maester’s collar was no simple metal choker such as Luwin wore, but two dozen heavy chains wound together into a ponderous metal necklace that covered him from throat to breast. The links were forged of every metal known to man: black iron and red gold, bright copper and dull lead, steel and tin and pale silver, brass and bronze and platinum. Garnets and amethysts and black pearls adorned the metalwork, and here and there an emerald or ruby.

“And you served another king,” Eddard replied.

Pycelle looked briefly lost for a moment. “Oh, how forgetful of me,” he remembered as he reached into his robes to reveal the badge of office for the Hand of the King and handed it to Eddard. “This belongs to you now.”

Eddard took the badge, looking at Daveth who nodded at him and motioned for him to take the seat next to him.

“Shall we begin?” Pycelle asked.

“Indeed,” Daveth agreed as he sat down, clearing his throat. “This meeting of the Small Council is now called to order on behalf of His Grace, Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

Eddard looked around the chambers, momentarily confused. “We’re starting without the King?” he asks rather surprised.

Renly shook his head. “Winter may be coming, but I’m afraid the same cannot be said for my brother.”

“His Grace has many cares,” Varys chimed in. “He entrusts some small matters to use that we might lighten the load.”

Petyr joined in. “We are the lords of small matters here.”

“Every decision we make here in this very chamber, Lord Stark, could greatly affect the lives of every person within the Seven Kingdoms,” Daveth answers as well, explaining the government cabinet’s role. “Whether the task is great or small, it is our duty to ensure that the realm prospers in times of peace or war.”

As the others had taken to their accustomed seats, it struck Eddard Stark forcefully that he did not belong here, in this room, with these men. He remembered what Robert had told him in the crypts below Winterfell.

 _'I am surrounded by flatterers and fools,’_  Eddard thought. The king had insisted. He looked down the council table and wondered which were the flatterers and which the fools. He thought he knew already. “We are but six,” he pointed out.

Daveth took notice. “I’m afraid that the Master of Ships, my uncle Lord Stannis Baratheon, had already left to return to the island fortress of Dragonstone not long after father decided to take us to the North to send for you. As for Ser Barristan Selmy, well… traditionally as Lord Commander of the Kinsguard, Barristan does have a seat on the council but father chose to exclude him from the talks,” he shook his head. “Not that he didn’t mind father’s decision, mind you. Ser Barristan… is not one who enjoys discussing politics.”

“He rides beside the King as he makes his way through the city,” Varys said, “as benefits the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.”

“Perhaps we had best wait for Ser Barristan and the King to join us,” Eddard suggested.

Daveth shrugged. “Then you’ll be in for a rather long wait, my lord. And time is a precious resource we cannot afford to waste when it comes to governing the realm.”

Renly drew a tightly rolled paper from his green sleeve and laid it on the table.

“What my nephew means to say is that my brother has instructed us to stage a tournament in honor of Lord Stark’s appointment as Hand of the King.”

“Mmm, how much?” both Daveth and Petyr asked.

As the Master of Coin, Petyr’s responsibilities were overseeing the kingdom’s treasury and other financial concerns. Daveth, meanwhile, dreaded to hear the amount of money this tournament will likely cost. The new Hand of the King is not going to be pleased when he learns the truth.

Eddard answered off the scroll of paper. “40,000 gold dragons to the champion of the joust, 20,000 to the runner-up, 20,000 to the winner of the melee competition, and 20,000 to the winning archer.”

“100,000 gold dragons,” Petyr sighed. No doubt Daveth did the exact same thing, as he was placed his palm over his face.

Grand Maester Pycelle looked to Petyr. “Can the treasury bear such expense?”

“I’ll have to borrow it. The Lannisters will accommodate, I expect. We already owe Lord Tywin 3 million gold. What’s another 80,000?”

Daveth spoke grimly. “45,000 is the total amount the Crown owes to my grandfather,” he corrected. “Thankfully, the trade negotiations with the Braavosi and Tyroshi merchant-lords went rather smoothly last month. It should bring our financial problems with Lord Tywin down a tad, but the biggest concern in regards to money is dealing with the amount father currently owes to the Iron Bank of Braavos.”

Eddard was stunned. “Are you telling me the Crown is three million in debt?”

“I’m telling you the Crown was previously six million in debt,” Petyr corrected. “If not for Prince Daveth negotiating a new set of trade deals, the realm would have found itself seemingly fallen into an inescapable hole. As of last month, the Crown is more than one million in debt.”

“How could he let this happen?” Eddard was aghast.

Petyr shrugged. “The Master of Coin finds the money. The King and the Hand spend it.”

“I will not believe Jon Arryn allowed Robert to bankrupt the realm.”

Daveth shook his head in disbelief. “No, Lord Stark. Lord Arryn did not approve of such actions like reckless spending when he was serving as Hand of the King. He argued with father about it day and night until exhaustion took him.”

“Lord Arryn gave wise and prudent advice,” Pycelle agreed, “but I fear His Grace doesn’t always listen.”

“'Counting coppers,’ he calls it,” said Renly.

“Father will always do whatever he wants, whenever he wants without taking our advice into consideration. Consequences be damned,” Daveth informs Eddard.

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow,” Eddard spoke. “Based on the findings Lord Baelish and Prince Daveth provided, this tournament is an extravagance we cannot afford.”

“As you will,” Petyr said. “But still, we’d best make our plans in the meantime.”

“There will be no plans until I speak to Robert!” Eddard said sharply. Perhaps too sharply, from the looks they gave him. He would have to remember he was not in the North. “Forgive me, my lords,” he spoke softly. “I had a long ride.”

“Think nothing of it, my lord,” Daveth replied. “We could call a halt for today’s business and resume at another date.”

Varys nodded. “You are the King’s Hand, Lord Stark, we serve at your pleasure.”

“This meeting is adjourned,” Daveth concludes. “Dismissed.”

Without asking for their consent, Eddard stood up and made for the door as the others followed suit. Daveth gathered his pile of necessary paperwork and prepared to make to his chambers, no doubt having to make his throbbing headache go away. He worked very hard to bring the Crown’s financial debt down, but with Robert’s reckless spending it seemed to make his job that much harder as he worked to get the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros out of this mess.

When he approached his room, Daveth noticed a note sticking in between the doorway. He slowly opened it and began to read.

“The deed is done. The gift for your betrothed will arrive within the fortnight,” was all it said.

 _'Hopefully this will make things better,’_  Daveth thought.  _'I don’t want to have to deal with a moping, naïve consort…’_


	9. Prepping for the Hand's Tourney

Daveth was in his bedchamber, sitting in front of his desk writing letters. To his left sat a pile of history books, to his right laid a pile of documents he had been working on to be sent out later. Ever since his father King Robert announced a tournament was going to be held, Daveth tried his hardest to bring down the costs and call in additional favors with his group of anonymous contacts. Ever since returning to King’s Landing, Daveth felt a sense of relief to be back in his known element. Work, work, work, and more work. The Crown Prince’s days at court was never done.

As he put the final touches on the paper, Daveth took a moment to look it over.

> _“To the noble lords and ladies of Westeros,_
> 
> _You are hereby invited to attend the royal tournament at the capital city of King’s Landing in honor of the appointment of Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount and Warden of the North as Hand of the King at the will and word of His Grace Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._
> 
> _Prizes for the winning champion of the joust competition include 40,000 gold dragons, with the runner-up being awarded 20,000. The champion of the melee competition will be given 20,000 gold dragons, and the champion of the archery competition will be granted 20,000._
> 
> _All necessary arrangements have been made. Seats and quality items, along with food, drinks and entertainment will be provided to visiting dignitaries, their knights and their squires by the Master of Coin._
> 
> _Seven blessings to all._
> 
> _Signed,  
>  Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon · Heir to the Iron Throne”_

Not saying anything, Daveth calmly folded the paper and sealed it with wax, stamping it with the royal seal of House Baratheon. He sighed and set it aside, still weary from today’s work… and, of course, his argument with the King.

**ooOoo**

> _“I will not hear another word!” King Robert shouted. “If there’s going to be a tournament, there will be a tournament!”_
> 
> _“The Crown is already deeply in debt to many creditors. To grandfather, the Iron Bank…” Daveth argued. “And you still plan to plunge the realm deeper into debt? We simply cannot be able to afford it, nor are we in a capacity to repay it, Father.”_
> 
> _“You think I don’t know that, boy? I know I’m half a kingdom in debt to your bloody grandfather, Tywin Lannister! And you will watch yourself with me, boy. You might be my son and heir, but you’re still speaking to the King.”_
> 
> _“Be that as it may,” Daveth corrected, “you still neglect your duties and responsibilities. Instead, you pass them off to the Small Council, to me, to Jon Arryn…” he abruptly stopped arguing and briefly took a moment to compose himself, his face showing a brief sense of hurt._
> 
> _Robert’s tightened face loosened, hinting at what Daveth’s words meant._
> 
> _“I know it seems rather unfair, and I know how much Lord Arryn meant to you. He fostered Ned and I as children at the Vale, remember? Never had much to teach me, but at least he did right by you. Spoiled you rotten, I’d think. But I somehow knew you were happy.”_
> 
> _“The only time. Before Lannisport,” Daveth shook his head, speaking more calmly again. “Forgive me, father. I know I shouldn’t speak out like that.”_
> 
> _“Bah! Let that go, and make plans for the tournament already,” Robert quickly dismissed._
> 
> _Daveth, not wanting to argue anymore, simply turned to leave the room before being stopped again._
> 
> _“And one more thing,” Robert said, “you’ll be entering as well.”_
> 
> _“Me?” Daveth asked surprised. He wasn’t expecting his father to simply order him to compete again. “Why me?”_
> 
> _“Because one I’m the King, and two your eighteenth nameday is coming soon,” Robert answered as he took another cup of wine, drinking it rather loudly. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “And you will do as you’re told, boy.”_

**ooOoo**

Daveth shook his head in exhaustion, taking a moment to stand up from his desk as he looked in the mirror. He took a moment to groom his hair, change into proper attire befitting a man of his stature and slightly massaged his stubble, feeling the small strands of hair against the tip of his fingers. Once done, Daveth approached a mannequin holding his armor – which was rather similar to that of the Kingsguard in design pattern but was different from other knights; the plate armor itself was jet black of color, with charcoal-grey chainmail, scarlet red sleeves with brown gloves and a golden cloak. On the front of the breastplate was the sigil of House Baratheon, but was a gold stag with a white crown around its neck; this indicated it was reversal of the House Baratheon sigil, as was Daveth’s own personal banner.

 _‘Young Stag, Oathkeeper, Black Lion…’_  Daveth thoughtfully contemplates as he examined the armor.  _'All of them names that all but replace a man’s very own.’_

Hung on the wall was his longsword which Daveth named “Stormbringer.” The crossguard and rain-guard featured the stag of House Baratheon, the grip and pommel with a lion’s head with ruby eyes decorated with Lannister gold, and the blade itself forged from Valyrian steel. Aside from its sharpness, Valyrian steel is recognizable by its strength and lightless weight in comparison to ordinary steel, as well as by a distinctive rippled pattern visible in blades made from it. Since the Doom of Valyria, the amount of Valyrian steel in the world is finite and extremely rare. It was gifted by Lord Tywin Lannister as a gift to Daveth during his grandson’s sixteenth nameday.

***KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!***

Daveth turned to the door. “Come in,” he said.

The door opened and in came Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, causing Daveth to smile warmly at seeing the two. They were the only ones to make the stoic and serious Oathkeeper to smile.

“Is it true, big brother?” Myrcella asked. “You’ll be competing in the tourney?”

“Can we watch you?” Tommen asked.

Daveth rolled his eyes in amusement. “It would appear so,” he told them. “Father was rather adamant about it. And don’t worry about whether or not you’ll attend. You two will be seated with the rest of our family: at the very front.”

Myrcella and Tommen squealed in delight. Not only was their eldest brother competing in the Hand’s Tournament, but they’ll also get to watch him too. Maybe he’ll even win!

“I know you’ll win,” Myrcella remarked. “You always find a way.”

“Tournaments aren’t always about winning and losing, 'Cella,” he said to his sister. “Sometimes it helps knights from across the realm hone their skills, to make them into something more than that. But other times most tend to confuse it as a chance for glory.”

“Why?” Tommen asked puzzled.

“Let’s just say that there are some knights… who don’t normally abide by the oaths they swore to uphold,” Daveth tried his best to explain. “Some of these men might see it as a chance to settle whatever differences they have with other competitors.”

Myrcella and Tommen looked a little worried, but giggled as Daveth ruffled their heads.

“But don’t worry about that,” he reassured them. “Your brother knows what he’s doing. I’ll be fine.”

On que, Queen Cersei Lannister enters the room; taking a moment to take in the warm sight of seeing her youngest children with her eldest. It warmed her heart knowing how much Myrcella and Tommen loved their brother and vice-versa. Daveth turned to notice his mother entering as well before returning his attention to Myrcella and Tommen.

“Alright, you two. Time for you to take a bath. Be sure to get yourselves cleaned and look presentable. All the lords and ladies will be gathering at the King’s Gate within the fortnight,” Daveth told them.

Myrcella and Tommen nodded and ran past their mother Cersei out of the room, leaving Cersei alone with Daveth.

“It’s always nice to see how much they adore you,” Cersei said. “They think of you as their favorite.”

Daveth looked at his mother. “Tommen and Myrcella are good, decent children. Innocent,” was all he said as he returned to properly shuffle his papers. “They both are.”

“It’s a shame the feeling isn’t shared with Joffrey.”

“Does it come as a surprise, mother? You might not believe so, but we both see Joff for whom and what he is.”

A brief tense moment soon loomed over them.

“I hear you’ll be competing in the tournament,” Cersei changed the subject.

Daveth nodded plainly. “What about it?”

Cersei strolled over to the window, still keeping her eyes focused on Daveth. “You know how much it bothers me; a lioness concerning herself with the well-being of her cub, that’s all.”

“Are you on that again?”

“You’re still my darling boy, no matter how much you grow.”

“We all have to grow up sometimes. Cubs eventually have to leave their mothers and find their own way in life. That’s how it works, doesn’t it? In the end it’s unavoidable. Besides, I stopped being a boy since Lannisport.”

Cersei didn’t like it. “Of course,” she merely said. “Kings do get their scars at some point, I’m certain. Yet you’ve already proven yourself as a warrior like your father.”

“I’m not like father.”

“When Aerys Targaryen sat on the Iron Throne, your father was a rebel and a traitor. Someday you’ll sit on the throne and the truth will be what you make it.”

Daveth knew the game of thrones, picking out pieces of Cersei’s words bit by bit and didn’t take long to figure out his mother’s intention yet kept his own well-hidden.

“What do you think of your intended?” Cersei asked.

Daveth looked at Cersei, wondering what caused her to ask that. “Sansa? What about her?” he pressed.

“She’s very beautiful and young. Do something nice for the Stark girl.”

“I intend to,” he said as Daveth moved to walk out of the room. “The occasional kindness could spare anyone all sorts of trouble down the road.”

“If you don’t like her, you only need to see her on formal occasions and when the time comes, to make little princes and princesses. And if you’d rather fuck painted whores, you’ll fuck painted whores. And if you’d rather lie with noble virgins, so be it.”

Daveth stopped and looked over his shoulder, looking coolly at Cersei. “Take a good look at me, mother. Do I look like father to you?” was all he said as he left before Cersei could say anything.

Cersei frowned deeply and scowled as she watched as her firstborn leaving, feeling the sharp sting to her wounded pride at being reminded of King Robert’s infidelities. It wasn’t long before one of her handmaidens arrived with word from the North… Bran Stark survived the fall, regained consciousness… and someone tried to kill him!

* * *

**At the gates…**

* * *

Catelyn and Ser Rodrik arrive at King’s Landing, tiredly entering through a back entrance as a result of their long journey from Winterfell.

“Fewer eyes back here, my lady,” Rodrik calls out to her. “But still too many.”

“It’s nine years since I’ve set foot in the capital. And no one knew who I was the last time I came either.”

The grizzled old man still remained on guard, ever since the confrontation the failed assassination attempt on Bran’s life while he slept. To find proof that the Lannisters were involved in the attempt on her son’s life twice, Catelyn went to seek out her old friend Petyr Baelish’s help.

As Catelyn massaged the bandages on her hands, Rodrik calls out, “My lady!”

Two City Watch guards pull up to her on horseback.

“Welcome to King’s Landing, Lady Stark,” one of them greeted. “Would you mind following us?”

“I would,” she said. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

“We’ve been instructed to escort you into the city.”

“Instructed? I don’t know who’s providing your instructions, but…”

He showed her a ribbon. Catelyn felt her breath catch in her throat. The seal was a mockingbird, in grey wax.

“Follow me, Lady Stark,” he again requested. This time, Catelyn followed behind.

The guardsmen left their mounts outside the walls and escorted her through a narrow postern door, then up endless steps to a tower. They soon arrived inside a small building, but Catelyn was disgusted by the sight as she realized she was led into a brothel. Once turning the corner, Catelyn saw Petyr with two whores. He was seated at a heavy wooden table, an oil lamp beside him as he wrote. When they ushered her inside, he set down his pen and looked at her.

“Cat!” he calls out quietly as he turned to the prostitutes. “Go on. Go upstairs.”

They leave the room.

“You little worm!” Catelyn snapped at Petyr. “You take me for some back-alley Sally you can drag into a…”

She is interrupted by two more prostitutes, who leave as Petyr snaps at them to leave.

“I meant no disrespect to you of all people,” Petyr looked contrite.

The look brought back vivid memories for Catelyn. He had been a sly child, but after his mischiefs he always looked contrite; it was a gift he had. The years had not changed him much. Petyr had been a small boy, and he had grown into a small man, an inch or two shorter than Catelyn, slender and quick, with the sharp features she remembered and the same laughing grey-green eyes. He had a little pointed chin beard now, and threads of silver in his dark hair, though he was still in his mid-thirties. They went well with the silver mockingbird that fastened his cloak. Even as a child, he had always loved his silver.

“How dare you bring me here! Have you lost your mind?” she demanded.

Petyr rose his hands up. “No one will come looking for you here. Isn’t that what you wanted? I’m truly sorry… about the local.”

Catelyn narrowed her eyes. “How did you know I was coming to King’s Landing?”

“A dear friend told me,” Petyr smiled slyly as Varys made his entrance.

“Lady Stark,” the eunuch greets.

“Lord Varys.”

“To see you again after so many years is a blessing,” Varys said politely as he took her hands to examine the bandages. “Your poor hands.”

Catelyn yanked her hands out of his grasp. “How did you know I was coming?” she asked.

“Knowledge is my trade, my lady,” Varys bobbed his head. “Did you bring the dagger with you, by any chance?”

Catelyn stared at the eunuch in stunned disbelief. How did he know about the dagger?

Varys smiled. “My little birds are everywhere. Even in the North. They whisper to me the strangest stories,” he said. His “little birds"―often men, women, children and those who suffer from dwarfism―are the names he gives to his massive spynetwork, which earned him the nickname "The Spider.”

Ser Rodrik pulled out the dagger from beneath his cloak and gave it to Varys, who began examining it with exaggerated delicacy.

“Ah. Valyrian steel,” Varys exclaimed.

“Do you know whose dagger this is?” Catelyn asked, as if pleading for answers.

Varys looked at her closely before shaking his head. “I must admit I do not.”

“Well, well, this is an historic day,” Petyr laughed amusingly, annoying Varys. “Something you don’t know that I do,” he said as he looked at Catelyn again. “There’s only one dagger like this in all of the Seven Kingdoms. It’s mine.”

“Yours?” Catelyn looked surprised. It didn’t make sense to her; Petyr never even stepped foot Winterfell before.

“At least it was, until the tournament of Prince Joffrey’s last nameday and Prince Daveth receiving his knighthood,” he said, crossing the room. “I bet on Ser Jaime in the jousting, as any sane man would. When the Knight of the Flowers unseated him, I lost this dagger.”

“To who?” Catelyn demanded, her mouth dry with fear. Her fingers ached with remembered pain.

“Tyrion Lannister,” said Petyr as Varys watched Cat’s face. “The Imp.”

* * *

**In the Queen’s chambers…**

* * *

As soon as word reached her, Cersei Lannister immediately summoned her twin brother into her chambers. As soon as Jaime stepped, Cersei slammed the door behind her.

“How could you be so stupid?” she sneered.

“Calm down,” Jaime said, but Cersei was in no mood to listen.

“He’s a child… 10 years old. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of us. You’re a bit late to start complaining about it now. What has the boy told them?”

“Nothing,” Cersei replies quietly. “He said nothing. He remembers nothing.”

“Then what are you raving about?” Jaime pressed incredulously.

Cersei looked nervous. “What if it comes back to him?” she asks. “If he tells his father what he saw…”

 _'The tower,’_  Jaime thought. Of course, it had to be the moment when Bran climbed the tower and saw Jaime and Cersei having sex. Back then he did whatever it took to silence him, but the boy survived the fall in the end. “We’ll say he was lying,” he answered as he approaches his sister. “We’ll say he was dreaming. We’ll say whatever we like. I think we can outfox a 10-year-old.”

“And my husband?” Cersei asks. “And my son?”

“I’ll go to war with them if I have to,” Jaime responded. He had no quarrel about possibly fighting King Robert Baratheon despite his vows as a Kingsguard, yet deep down both he and Cersei were bothered at what might happen if Daveth were to one day oppose them. “They can write a ballad about us,” he smirked arrogantly. “'The War for Cersei’s Cunt.’”

***SLAP!***

Cersei slapped Jaime, but to her surprise, her twin turns back and starts chuckling in amusement. She moves to slap him again, but Jaime overpowers her, spins her around and hugs her from behind.

“Let me go!” she yelled.

“Never,” he whispers into Cersei’s ear.

“Let me go,” she pleads.

Jaime held Cersei tight, whispering with fire in his voice. “The boy won’t talk. And if he does, I’ll kill him. Him, Ned Stark, the King… the whole bloody lot of them, until you and I are the only people left in this world.”

Cersei looked at her brother, her thoughts now focusing on her children. Daveth, Joffrey, Tommen, Myrcella… she loved her children, all of them. Despite their differences and occasional clashes, Cersei’s main concern is what would happen to her first boy if Jaime had indeed planned on carrying out his supposed threat.

 _'My children…’_  Cersei thought worryingly.

* * *

**Outside in the courtyard at sundown…**

* * *

“You always did like to come here, even when you were a boy,” Barristan called out to Daveth, who spent the day looking over the balcony to take in the sights of King’s Landing below. Each of the houses had already lit their candles by their windows. “You’d sit at this very spot and take in the sights.”

“I liked the view,” Daveth replied humorously at the old knight. “And you always knew where to find me.”

Barristan said nothing as he moved to join the Crown Prince. “So you’ll be competing in the tournament?” he asked.

“I am, though not by choice. Father was insistent about it.”

“Maybe it’s his way of wanting to show you off."

Daveth shook his head. “I don’t believe that’s the case, Ser Barristan. If he wanted to parade me around like a trophy he would have done so years ago. He never did such a thing. Why he would put my name forward without consulting with me first I have no idea.”

Barristan and Daveth chuckled as they talked.

“You remember when I was knighted?”

“Of course, my Prince. I was there as you knelt before your father and swore your oath. You were sixteen years old, and no longer a squire.”

“It meant a lot to me that you were there,” Daveth said before looking over the balcony. “I believe that was perhaps the first and only time father was ever proud of me. Within a day it was back to the same routine.”

“Try not to dwell on the past, my boy,” Barristan said as he put his hand on Daveth’s shoulder. “Even if His Grace doesn’t show it, I know he’s still proud of you.”

“I’d like to believe that, Barristan. I do, but even that only goes so far.”

Barristan looked at his former squire, studying his posture and came to a conclusion.

“Perhaps a night’s rest is called for,” he suggested.

“I’m not—” Daveth tried to protest.

Barristan merely cut him off.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard, Prince Daveth. I understand you feel as sense of duty and responsibility. As a knight and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, I understand what you’re going through. But that doesn’t mean you have to carry that burden alone. Don’t forget there are people in the city who’d be willing and able to help you,” he said before motioning him to return to the Red Keep. “Come. A good ruler must at least be able to get a good night’s rest.”

Daveth didn’t protest, as he merely leaned off the balcony.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I suppose my ranting and raving could wait another day.”

The two began their walk back inside as the sun beginning to fade in the distance behind them. Tomorrow would be a new day and Daveth had to get himself prepared.


	10. Shrouded in Mystery

* * *

**Back in the throne room, just outside the Small Council chambers…**

* * *

Eddard Stark was preparing to head into his chambers when Grand Maester Pycelle handed him a scroll, telling him a raven arrived from Winterfell this morning. He had a momentary look on his face when Petyr Baelish appeared in front of him.

"Good news? Perhaps you'd like to share it with your wife."

"What game are you playing, Littlefinger?" Eddard asks, clearly in no mood. "My wife is in Winterfell."

"Is she?" Petyr's grey-green eyes glittered with amusement, motioning the Hand of the King to follow him.

Eddard followed warily, wondering if this day would ever end. He had no taste for these intrigues, but he was beginning to realize that they were meat and mead to a man like Littlefinger. Finally Baelish drew rein in front of a ramshackle building, three stories, timbered, its windows bright with lamplight in the gathering dusk. The sounds of music and raucous laughter drifted out and floated over the water. Beside the door swung an ornate oil lamp on a heavy chain, with a globe of leaded red glass. Petyr had led Eddard to the entrance of his brothel in one of the city's busiest streets.

"I thought that she'd be safest in here," Petyr explains. "One of several such establishments I own."

***SLAM!***

It was the final insult. Eddard, not so keen on the idea, spun Littlefinger around and slammed him against the wall, his hand wrapping tightly around Petyr's throat.

"You're a funny man, hmm?" Eddard said in a cold fury as he strangles Petyr. "A very funny man."

"Ned!" an urgent voice calls out to him from above.

Eddard looks up and notices Catelyn looking down at him from a window; then, suddenly, the recognition coming to him. He was hopelessly confused, but released his grip on Littlefinger's throat and made his way inside.

"The Starks…" Petyr coughed, adjusting his collar. "Quick tempers, slow minds."

They went inside, through a crowded common room where a fat woman was singing bawdy songs while pretty young girls in linen shifts and wisps of colored silk pressed themselves against their lovers and dandled on their laps. No one paid Ned the least bit of attention. Inside, Catelyn was waiting. She cried out when she saw him, ran to him, and embraced him fiercely.

"I feared you'd never come," Catelyn hugged Eddard. "has been bringing me reports. He told me of your troubles with Arya and the young prince. How are my girls?"

"Both in mourning, and full of anger," he told her. "Cat, I don't understand. What are you doing in King's Landing? What's happened? You've been hurt. Gods. Those are deep cuts… a gash from a sword or… how do this happen?" Eddard asked his wife.

Catelyn slid a dagger out from under her cloak and placed it in his hand.

"We have proof. We have the blade."

"Which Lord Tyrion will say was stolen from him," Petyr suggests. "The only man who could say otherwise has no throat, thanks to your boy's wolf."

"Petyr has promised to help us find the truth," Catelyn said. "He's like a little brother to me. He would never betray my trust."

That was not news that Eddard Stark welcomed, but it was true enough that they needed help, and Littlefinger had been almost a brother to Cat once. It would not be the first time that Ned had been forced to make common cause with a man he despised.

"I'll try to keep you alive, for her sake," Petyr says. "A fool's task, admittedly, but I've never been able to refuse your wife anything."

Catelyn went to Petyr and took his hands in her own. "I won't forget this. You're a true friend."

Petyr smiled. "Don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to maintain."

Not long after, Eddard saw Catelyn out to the road – promising to find proof of the Lannisters' involvement with the attempt on Bran's life. If he finds it, he'll present his findings to Robert. Eddard hopes that the King is still the man he once knew, but something in his gut also warned him that there will be at least two people in King's Landing who will not take kindly to such accusations…

Even if they do have merit.

* * *

**At the throne room of the Red Keep in King's Landing…**

* * *

Sansa Stark is walking with Septa Mordane, instructing the girl of the history of the Iron Throne and what her duties will soon entail once she becomes Daveth's queen.

"Someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side," the septa explains. "And one day, before too long, you will present your son to the court. All the lords of Westeros will gather here to see the little prince…"

Sansa remained unconvinced, a part of her still being mad at her father for seemingly carrying out King Robert's order on the Kingsroad.

"What if I have a girl?" she asks.

Septa Mordane looks at Sansa briefly. "Gods be good, you'll have boys and girls. And plenty of them."

"What if I only have girls?"

"I wouldn't worry about that."

Sansa looks at Septa Mordane incredulously. "Jeyne Poole's mother had five children, all of them girls."

"Yes, but it's highly unlikely."

"But what if?"

Mordane sighed, weary of this constant poking. "If you only had girls," she said quietly, "I suppose the throne would pass to Prince Daveth's younger brother Prince Joffrey."

"And everyone would hate me."

"Nobody could ever hate you."

"Joffrey does. Daveth might…"

The septa shook her head. "Nonsense. Why would you say such a thing? The Crown Prince would never hate you," No doubt Sansa still hangs onto the incident. "Are you still thinking about that business with the wolves? I've told you a hundred times… A direwolf is not…"

"Please shut up about it," Sansa rudely silenced her.

Mordane was stunned; Sansa  _never_  spoke to her that way before. Feeling the need to just walk away, the septa merely continued their history lessons as Sansa tried to walk away.

"Do you remember your lessons?" she asks. "Who built the Iron Throne?"

"Aegon the Conqueror," Sansa answers.

"And who built the Red Keep?"

"Maegor the Cruel."

"And how many years did it take to build—"

"My grandfather and uncle were murdered here, weren't they?"

The chain of events that started Robert's Rebellion began in the Great Hall of the Red Keep. Sansa's uncle, Brandon Stark, rode to King's Landing with several of his friends to demand justice when he heard that Prince Rhaegar Targaryen abducted his sister Lyanna Stark. Upon arriving at the Red Keep, many vaguely remembered Brandon shouting  _"Come out and die!"_  clearly intended for Rhaegar, who was not present – but King Aerys II Targaryen was. The Mad King had Brandon and his companions arrested on charges of treason for conspiring against the life of the Crown Prince. When Aerys called upon the Warden of the North, Lord Rickard Stark, to come to the capital to answer for his eldest son's crimes, Rickard complied – only to be arrested for treason as well. When Rickard demanded a trial by combat, Aerys chose wildfire as the champion of House Targaryen and had Rickard strapped up and burned the Lord of Winterfell alive. Brandon was strapped to a torture device around his neck and strangled himself to death trying to save his father.

"They were killed on the orders of King Aerys, yes."

"The Mad King," Sansa replies.

"Commonly known as the Mad King," Mordane corrected.

"Why were they killed?"

"You should speak to your father about these matters."

"I don't want to speak to my father, ever."

"You will find it in your heart to forgive your father."

"No, I won't," Sansa stubbornly replied before making her way to her chambers in the Tower of the Hand.

* * *

**At a Dothraki campsite…**

* * *

On the far side of the Great Grass Sea of the Dothraki, tents had been erected by the shore of a spring-fed pool. In her capacity as the new khaleesi, Daenerys Targaryen could hear rough voices from the woven grass palace on the hill. Soon there would be laughter, when the men of her khas told the story of what had happened in the grasses today. Daenerys smiled. Perhaps this was the relaxation she needed. She had a rough morning; she had another run-in with her older, violent brother Viserys.

**ooOoo**

_"You dare!" Viserys furiously screamed at her, storming into a field where Daenerys wandered into with a longsword in hand. "You give commands to me? To me?!" he dismounted his horse, stumbling as he landed. He was still screaming as he grabs Daenerys's throat. "You do not command the dragon. I am Lord of the Seven Kingdoms! I don't take orders from savages or their sluts! Do you hear me?!"_

**_*CRACK!*_ **

_One of her khalasar, Rakharo arrives and whips Viserys, making a sound like thunder, wrapping it around his neck and yanks the self-proclaimed Targaryen king to the ground. He went sprawling in the grass, stunned and choking. The Dothraki riders hooted at him as he struggled to free himself. Ser Jorah and the rest of her khas arrived not long afterwards. Rakharo looks at Daenerys and rasped a question in Dothraki._

_"Rakharo ask if you want him dead, khaleesi," Irri translated._

_"No!" Daenerys exclaims._

_"Rakharo say you should take ear, to teach respect."_

_"Please please, don't hurt him," Daenerys pleads. "Tell him I don't want my brother harmed."_

_Rakharo, visibly confused, relents and releases his grip on Viserys. In his rage, Viserys quickly rises to his feet to look at Jorah Mormont, coughing as air finds its way back into his lungs._

_"Kill these Dothraki dogs!" he screamed at Jorah. "I am your King!"_

_Jorah, however, turned his gaze to Daenerys instead. "Shall we return to the khalasar, khaleesi?"_

_Viserys gaped at him, and sat down in the dirt. His eyes were full of poison as they rode away. But when he reached for his horse, Rakharo pulled Viserys's horse away._

_"You walk," he said in the Common Tongue._

**ooOoo**

By the time Viserys came limping back among them, every man, woman, and child in the camp would know him for a walker. There were no secrets in the khalasar. She gave the silver over to the slaves for grooming and entered her tent. It was cool and dim beneath the silk. As she let the door flap close behind her, Dany saw a finger of dusty red light reach out to touch her dragon's eggs across the tent. For an instant a thousand droplets of scarlet flame swam before her eyes. She blinked, and they were gone.

One of Daenerys's handmaidens, Irri, was braiding Daenerys's hair and teaching her how to speak the Dotrahki's language.

"Yes, khaleesi," Irri praises her. The new khaleesi was learning fast.

Daenerys smiles, but stops when Irri began feeling her breasts. "What are you doing?" she asks giggling.

"When was the last time you bleed, khaleesi?" Irri questions.

Daenerys's smile faded, and a surprised look soon took place.

"You change, khaleesi. It's a blessing from the Great Stallion."

She did not recall the last time she bled; which meant only one thing. Daenerys Targaryen was pregnant. Once night has befallen, Daenerys is seen intertwined with her husband Khal Drogo in their tent via candlelight.

"Me rakh(It's a boy)," Daenerys tells him.

Drogo is surprised. "Kifinosi yer nesi? (How do you know?)".

"Anha sekke nesa (I know)," she smiles.

* * *

**At the Small Council chambers…**

* * *

"It's the Hand's tournament that's causing all this trouble, my lords," complained Janos Slynt, the Commander of the City Watch.

Daveth sat at the front, listening to the complaints being made. He had clearly anticipated the arrival of so many guests and made all the necessary seating arrangements, but it clearly didn't stop uninvited dignitaries from trying to make their way into the city. The City Watch of King's Landing is the law-enforcement institution responsible for the safety and security of the capital city of the Seven Kingdoms. Consisting of more than 2,000 men, each Watchmen are more colloquially known as "Gold Cloaks" because of the gold-colored capes they wear. The kingdom pays the City Watch salaries, but unlike other organizations in the Seven Kingdoms, these soldiers swear no allegiance.

"The King's tournament," Eddard wincingly corrected. "I assure you the Hand wants no part of it."

"Call if what you will, Lord Stark, ser," Janos continued, "the city is packed with people and more flooding in every day. Last night we had a tavern riot, a brothel fire, three stabbings and a drunken horse race down the Street of Sisters."

"Dreadful," Varys shuddered.

"Yet clearly more and more incidents have been pouring in ever since the King decided to hold this tournament. Tell me, Commander Slynt, did any of your men mention other unfortunate mishaps occurring across the city?" Daveth asked.

Janos nodded. "Yes, my Prince. This cursed heat had half the city in a fever to start. Six of my men reported a drowning, a rape and robberies beyond count. One even mentioned finding a woman's head in the Great Sept of Baelor, floating in the rainbow pool. No one seems to know how it got there or who it belongs to."

Daveth's uncle, Lord Renly Baratheon, however, was less sympathetic. "If you can't keep the King's peace, perhaps the City Watch should be commanded by someone who can."

Stout, jowly Janos Slynt puffed himself up like an angry frog, his bald pate reddening.

"Mind your manners, Uncle Renly," Daveth immediately rebuffed. As ever, his father King Robert had not troubled himself to attend the council session, so it fell to both his Hand and heir to speak for him. "Commander Slynt is merely performing his duties, yet there's only so much he can do when there's this many people from across the realm coming in. His men are stretched too thin, not even Aegon the Conqueror could keep the peace."

Renly and Daveth exchanged glances. Daveth, meanwhile, returned his attention to Janos.

"The commander of the City Watch will disregard the Master of Laws' rude comment," he said.

Janos seemed to relax a bit. "I need more men," he requested.

"How many do you need?" Eddard asked, leaning forward.

"Any you can spare, Lord Hand."

"You'll get 50," Eddard told him. "Lord Baelish will see it paid for."

"I will?" Littlefinger said.

Daveth looked at Petyr. "You  _are_  the Master of Coin in service to the King, are you not?"

Eddard joined in. "You found money for a champion's purse, you can find money to keep the peace," he said before turning back to Janos. "I'll also give you 20 of my household guards until the crows have left."

"Thank you, my Lord Hand, ser," Janos said, bowing. "They will be put to good use."

When the Commander had taken his leave, Eddard Stark turned to the rest of the council. As if the expense and trouble were not irksome enough, all and sundry insisted on salting Eddard's wound by calling it "the Hand's tourney," as if he were the cause of it. And Robert honestly seemed to think he should feel honored!

"The sooner this is over, the better," he exclaimed.

"The realm prospers from such events, my lord," Varys said. "They give the great a chance at glory, and the lowly a respite from their woes."

"And every inn in the city is full and the whores are walking bow-legged," Petyr added.

"At least we're fortunate my brother Stannis is not with us. Remember the time he proposed to outlaw brothels?" Renly laughed. "Robert asked him if perhaps he'd like to outlaw eating, shitting, and breathing while he was at it. If truth be told, I ofttimes wonder how Stannis ever got that ugly daughter of his. He goes to his marriage bed like a man marching to a battlefield, with a grim look in his eyes and a determination to do his duty."

Both Daveth and Eddard did not join the laughter.

"Sometimes I wonder what would make Uncle Stannis leave to Dragonstone so abruptly," Daveth mentioned.

"Do you think he intends to end his visit and resume his seat on this council?" Eddard asked.

"It's difficult to say. Now… if there's nothing else, my lords?"

No one else said anything more.

"Then the meeting of the Small Council is hereby adjourned for the day."

"This heat," Grand Maester Pycelle complained as he stood up. "On days like this, I envy you northerners and your summer snows. Until tomorrow, my lord."

As the council members are all leaving, Eddard stops Daveth.

"Daveth," he called out, causing the Crown Prince to stop in his tracks. "A moment, if you will?"

Daveth looked at the Hand of the King, before making his way over. "You wanted to speak to me, Lord Hand?"

"I've been hoping to talk to you about Jon Arryn."

Daveth frowned slightly. "What about him?" he asked.

"What I meant is do you remember what Jon wanted specifically the night before he died?"

"Ah. Well…" he placed his hand beneath his chin, thinking about the night before Jon Arryn died. "He did mention something… A book, if I'm not mistaken," he said.

"A book? What book?"

"I believe the name of it was  _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms._ Last I checked it was in Grand Maester Pycelle's quarters. If you'd like to read it, I can have him fetch it for you."

Eddard shook his head. "That won't be necessary. I'll go speak to him myself," he remarked as he left to see Pycelle.

Daveth, now watching Eddard leave, had a series of questions floating through his mind.

 _'Why would he ask about that?'_  he pondered.  _'Did Lord Arryn…? No, don't even think of such thoughts, Daveth Baratheon. You have enough on your plate right now and not a moment of leisure time.'_

Daveth shook his head and left the Small Council chambers, recomposing himself.

"I've got a tournament to compete in," he muttered under his breath. "But first… I must tend to the gift's arrival."

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Sansa Stark and Septa Mordane are bow sowing. Sansa wore a flowery purple dress and her hair was put up into a birds nest like the rest of the southern ladies of court, only partially leaving her neck exposed with long strands being let down sometimes.

"You wear your hair like a real southern lady now," Mordane complimented.

"Well, why shouldn't I?" Sansa replies sarcastically. "We're in the south."

"It's important to remember where you come from. I'm not sure your mother would like these new styles."

"My mother isn't from the North."

"I'm aware of that."

"Why do you care?" she asked rudely. "Do you even have hair under there?"

Mordane frowned. "Yes. I have hair."

"I've never seen it."

"Would you like to?"

"No. Where are you from anyway, the north or the south?"

"I come from a very small village in—"

"Oh, wait. I just realized… I don't care."

"Sansa—!" Mordane scolded.

"Septa," Sansa coldly replied.

"Now you are being rude."

"Indeed, she is," a voice calls out.

Sansa frowningly turns wanting to shout at whomever said that, but her eyes widened in surprise, embarrassment and shame as Daveth Baratheon had been standing in the door way, leaning his back against the wall with his arms crossed. Judging by the look on his face, Sansa felt as Daveth was listening to every word of their conversation. Regardless, Sansa's eyes slowly lit up as Prince Daveth walks in. Both women stand up.

"My prince," Mordane and Sansa greeted.

"Septa, my lady," Daveth responded as he looked at Mordane. "Could you give us a moment?"

Mordane bows once more and leaves the room, leaving the two of them alone. Daveth returns his attention to Sansa, inhaling deeply.

"I apologize for my brother Joffrey's behavior these past few weeks," he begun. "He tends to act spoiled, rotten if he doesn't normally get his way. But it's only right that I acknowledge whatever misgivings occurred on my part as well. It was never my intention to cause my lady such great distress."

Sansa allowed herself to smile. "There's nothing to forgive, my prince. You did what you thought was best."

 _'If only the others saw it that way, little dove,'_  Daveth thought. "To make it up to you," he continued. "I brought you something. Think of it as an early engagement present."

Sansa looked puzzled. What could he be talking about? And what is this "gift" he speaks of? Daveth turns back to the door and gives a sharp whistle. Sansa hears footsteps,  _clawed_  footsteps, approach and her eyes widen at what she sees. A canine, much larger than the average dog, had bright golden eyes and thick grey fur.

"Look familiar?"

Sansa felt her eyes tear up and her lip tremble. "L… Lady…?" she asks in disbelief, her voice cracking.

The wolf recognized the voice of her mistress and ran towards Sansa, who leaned down to embrace the animal with a big hug. Lady gave licked Sansa and whined happily; she missed her mistress terribly and was happy to see her again.

"But how? I thought… I thought father…"

"You really believe everything you hear?" Daveth shook his head. "That body you saw on the Kingsroad wasn't your direwolf's; it belonged to an ordinary wolf."

Sansa took a moment to let the reality of this stunning revelation sink in; Eddard Stark did  _not_  actually kill Lady, but another wolf took her place.

"But will the King…?"

"You let me worry about father. From now, be sure to keep your pet somewhere hidden. There are plenty of eyes and ears everywhere in King's Landing."

Sansa looked concerned, but nodded all the same. "Thank you, my sweet prince," she thanked again. "This is a wonderful gift."

"There's something else," he said as he pulls a necklace from his pocket; one that gleamed with gold and was carved into a lion.

"It's beautiful. Like the one your mother wears."

"There are only two like it until this afternoon. Mother, Myrcella… and now you. May I?"

Sansa nods and turns around, allowing Daveth to put it on her, as acceptance.

"I really don't know what to say," Sansa smiles.

"Well, this makes you the third to wear such a gift. You'll be my Queen one day; it's only fitting that you should look the part," Daveth replies. "Lords and ladies from all over the Seven Kingdoms will come here once we marry. From the Last Hearth in the North to the Salt Shore of the south. I mean it. You are my lady now, and I will stop at nothing to keep you safe; from this day, until my last day."

Hands still entangled, Daveth noticed an almost leading look in Sansa's eyes. Instinctively, Daveth cupped her face and stepped forward and pressed his lips to hers. Briefly surprised, Sansa closed her eyes and kissed him back. All cares forgotten, all that mattered right now was  _this_. As the two pulled away, Sansa looked dreamily at Daveth. Before heading out the door, Daveth looked at Sansa.

"Will you walk with me?"


	11. Tourney of the Hand (The Mountain vs. the Oathkeeper)

* * *

  **At the Tourney of the Hand…**

* * *

Sansa and Arya rode to the tournament with Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole in tow. Since the last several days, they noticed Sansa’s behavior change. She seemed happier, and was smiling more often. Sansa had long since apologized to Septa Mordane and to her father for her rude attitude she displayed earlier; Eddard was rather pleased at his daughter, Mordane warmly accepted Sansa’s apology. Arya, meanwhile, was confused at her older sister’s shining new demeanor and was a bit sore from her earlier lessons with her mentor Syrio Forel the First Sword of Braavos.

Regardless, the view upon arriving was spectacular. Beyond the city walls, a hundred pavilions had been raised and thousands came to watch the spectacle—nobles and commoners alike. It took Sansa’s breath away; the knights in shining armor, the crows shouting, the banners of the noble Houses… and the royal family themselves were seated above them all.

_‘It’s even better than the songs,’_  Sansa thought with glee. She dressed beautifully for this occasion, wearing a green gown that brought out the auburn color of her hair.

Over the last few days, Sansa spent most of her time with her betrothed; Daveth Baratheon had led her on a tour throughout the city of King’s Landing—under supervision, of course. Such sights Sansa witnessed included the Great Sept of Baelor, Daveth’s favorite bakery shop at the Street of Flour, the markets of Fishmonger’s Square, the Dragonpit on the Hill of Rhaenys… and, of course, the slums of Flea Bottom. Unlike the streets in the city, Flea Bottom was a slum with a terrible stench, so the couple had to cover their noses to try to keep out the smell. Daveth told her of his plans to hire workers to construct a sewage system to improve hygiene, cleanliness as well as air and water quality in the district. Other than that, Sansa had a wonderful week with her betrothed.

Most of the knights assembled Sansa was able to recognize, others she did not. When she heard Daveth entered the list, Sansa scouted the area trying to find him.

“My sweet prince, where are you…?” Sansa said to herself quietly.

After a minute or two of searching, Sansa manages to identify Daveth in the field. Wearing his black armor with a golden stag on his breastplate, gold cloak and holding a black helmet studded with large antlers on each side under his left arm. He looked rather dashing this morning. Standing next to him helping strap on the last buckles and ensuring the armor stays on was King Robert Baratheon’s squire Lancel Lannister, oldest son of Daveth’s great-uncle Kevan Lannister; both were around the same age.

Daveth had already impressed many in the crowd by unseating his opponents in the joust, such as Lord Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, Jaime Lannister, even the grizzled old veteran yet legendary Kingsguard knight Ser Lucius “the Bull” Blackmyre. None cheered so loudly for the Crown Prince than Myrcella and Tommen. Joffrey, on the other hand, merely sneered. The final four competitors now included Crown Prince Daveth “the Oathkeeper” Baratheon of King’s Landing, Ser Hugh of the Vale, Ser Loras “the Knight of the Flowers” Tyrell of Highgarden, and Ser Gregor “the Mountain” Clegane of Clegane’s Keep.

Sansa smiles at Daveth and waves at him. Daveth notices Sansa amongst the crowd and gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. The joust was about to begin shortly. Sansa and Septa Mordane were given places of high honor, to the left of the raised dais where King Robert Baratheon himself sat beside Queen Cersei Lannister. When Prince Joffrey seated himself to her left, she felt her throat tighten. He had not spoken a word to her since the incident on the Kingsroad had happened, and she had not dared to speak to him at Daveth’s behest.

“You’re looking rather happy this morning, no?” someone says to Sansa. “You must be one of Catelyn’s daughters. You have the Tully look.”

Sansa turns to her right and sees Petyr Baelish standing above her and staring.

“I’m sorry. Do I…?” she questions, ill at ease. She did not know him.

Septa Mordane leans in. “Sansa dear, this is Lord Baelish. He’s known…”

“An old friend of the family,” Petyr finishes as he sits down next to Sansa. He looked almost as old as Eddard Stark, with a pointed beard and a silver streak in his hair, and he wore heavy cloak fastened with a silver mockingbird. “I’ve known your mother a long time.”

Arya, who knew little of him and only his nickname, was rather blunt. “Why do they call you 'Littlefinger’?”

“Arya!” Sansa shouted.

“Don’t be rude!” the septa scolded.

Petyr smiled. “No, it’s quite all right. When I was a child, I was very small and I come from a split of land called The Fingers. So you see, it’s an exceedingly clever nickname.”

King Robert had grown louder with each course. From time to time Sansa could hear him laughing or roaring a command over the music and the clangor of plates and cutlery, but they were too far away for her to make out his words. Now everybody heard him.

“I’ve been sitting here for days!” Robert thundered, enough for all to hear. He stood to his feet, red of face, and had a goblet of wine in one hand. It was clear that Robert was drunk as a man could be, reeling as he stumbled to keep his balance. “Start the damn joust before I piss myself!”

Queen Cersei, sitting next to her husband, was irritated at his behavior and wanted to leave. But chose instead to remain to watch her eldest son compete and endure Robert’s behavior a bit longer. Everyone watched the knights present themselves to the King. The first two soon stepped forward on their horses, bowing their heads to Robert. Sansa noticed that one of them in particular was a very tall man standing nearly eight feet tall with black armor and riding on a black steed with a golden saddle, thundering to the center like an avalanche.

“Gods, who’s that?” Sansa reacted in surprised.

“Ser Gregor Clegane,” said Petyr. “They call him the Mountain. The Hound’s older brother.”

“And his opponent?”

“Ser Hugh of the Vale. He was Jon Arryn’s squire. Look how far he’s come.”

Robert continued to look bored and irritated. “Yes, yes. Enough with the bloody pomp. Have at it!”

The joust begins. The first pass takes its course with no contact. On the second pass, however, the Mountain’s jousting lance strikes Ser Hugh in the neck, causing a massive splinter to be lodged inside and sever major arteries, and his blood begins gushing out. This occurs directly in front of where Sansa is sitting. Sansa screams in terror as the audience gasps in horror, even King Robert himself stood up in shock. Prince Daveth, who stood on the opposite side of the arena, was taken aback by the Mountain’s brute strength and violent nature. Ser Hugh shook violently; his life’s blood flowed from his neck in slow pulses, each weaker than the ones before. Moments later, Ser Hugh’s movements ceased.

“Somebody see to him at once!” Daveth shouted loudly. “Now!”

Attendants immediately rushed to the field, taking Ser Hugh’s lifeless body away. Sansa trembled; terrified that something so exciting took a sharp turn for the worst.

“Not what you were expecting?” Petyr asked, leaning to whisper into Sansa’s ear. “Has anyone ever told you the story of the Mountain and the Hound?”

Sansa fiercely shook her head no; she had never seen a man die before.

“Lovely little tale of brotherly love. The Hound was just a pup, six years old maybe. Gregor a few years older, already a big lad, already getting a bit of a reputation. Some lucky boys just born with a talent for violence. One evening, Gregor found his little brother playing with a toy by the fire…  _Gregor’s_ toy, a wooden knight. Gregor never said a word, he just grabbed his brother by the scruff of his neck and shoved his face into the burning coals. Held him there while the boy screamed, while his face melted. There aren’t very many people who know that story.”

Sansa looked behind her and noticed Sandor Clegane starting at his brother, noticing the burn marks covering the right side of his face. So that’s how the Hound got his burns!

“I won’t tell anyone. I promise.”

“No, please don’t. If the Hound so much as heard you mention it, I’m afraid all the knights in King’s Landing would not be able to save you, not even your beloved Prince.”

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Eddard Stark sat in his office, still looking at the Valyrian steel dagger used to try to kill his son Bran and the book The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms on his desk. The Stark patriarch and Hand of the King had been very busy lately, investigating Jon Arryn’s death and following possibly leads. He had already encountered several of Robert’s bastard children, the young blacksmith apprentice Gendry and the infant Barra.

His thoughts were soon broken when a knock came to his door.

“My lord, Prince Daveth is here to see you,” Jory called out.

Eddard nodded and opened the door. Daveth stepped inside.

“Lord Stark,” Daveth bowed his head slightly.

“Prince Daveth,” Eddard greeted. “What brings you here?”

“My father didn’t see you at the tournament this morning,” he said.

Eddard shook his head. “Putting my name on it doesn’t make it mine. Besides, I seem to remember you giving me a choice as to whether I could attend or not.”

“It would appear so,” Daveth smiled, yet soon frowned. “Suppose it’s fortunate you weren’t. One of the knights competing in the joust, Ser Hugh of the Vale, was killed. Lance shattered on impact and left a rather large splinter in his neck. I fear both your daughters saw it up close.”

“Are they alright?” Eddard spoke in a stern, yet concerned tone.

Daveth raised his hand. “Calm yourself, my lord. They’re both fine. A little shaken, perhaps, but Sansa and Arya are just fine.”

“And who was Ser Hugh’s opponent?” Eddard asked.

“The Mountain,” the Crown Prince answered.

Eddard frowned and cupped his chin, as if entering deep thought. “Hugh was Jon Arryn’s squire.”

“That’s correct. Father knighted him after Lord Arryn died.”

“I shall send for him,” Eddard said. “And the others.”

Daveth shook his head. “I already have some people tending to that matter, my lord. They are working diligently, though they could only do so much. But I didn’t come here to talk about that.”

Daveth walked past Eddard to look out the window.

“Look over here, my Lord Hand,” he beseeched.

Eddard joined Daveth, where he soon made a casual gesture. “Across the courtyard, by that door near the armory? The boy squatting by the steps polishing his master’s sword?”

“What about him?”

“He’s one of Varys’s 'little birds’,” Daveth answers. “Your activities since you arrived have not gone unnoticed.” He shifted against the window’s edge. “Now, further west near the stables. The guardsman leaning on the ramparts?”

Eddard saw the man. “Another of the eunuch’s whisperers?”

Daveth shook his head. “No, he reports directly to mother. From where he stands he enjoys a fine view to this tower, the better to note who calls on you.” He shifts again. “To the east. That red-headed whore propositioning one of the highborn lords?”

Eddard was starting to get annoyed with these guessing games. “And she answers to Lord Baelish?” he guesses.

“Correct,” Daveth acknowledges. “Everyone you see here answers to someone. Each of us who plays the game of thrones, me included, tends to have eyes and ears everywhere, even in the Red Keep. It’s often how we keep tabs on everyone in the city. My advice to you is to not trust the wrong people in King’s Landing. And I mean no one… If you cannot adapt to court intrigues, then you become an easy target.”

“By the Gods,” he exasperated. “Is everyone someone’s informer in this cursed city?” Eddard uncomfortably moved away from the window, having no taste for these intrigues.

“It’s difficult to say, Lord Stark. Be that as it may, I’d be more careful about whom you put much trust and faith in. There are so few nowadays.” He started for the door.

Eddard called after him. “Why are you telling me this?”

Daveth turned to look at Eddard.

“I have my reasons. Jon Arryn was a good man, but your words earlier made me believe there was indeed more than meets the eye. Perhaps Lord Arryn trusted the wrong people, who’s to know? But if your suspicions do indeed have merit, then it’ll be my job to keep you from meeting your predecessor’s fate.”

“And who can I trust?”

“That depends on who offers. Varys is a eunuch, a foreigner. As the Master of Whisperers, he commands a very vast network of spies stationed from all over Westeros to across the Narrow Sea itself. He may be… odd, at times. Even I have a hard time figuring him out. But I do believe he has the realm’s best interests at heart.”

“What about Lord Baelish? He’s already agreed to help determine who tried to kill my son Bran twice. My wife gave me her word.”

Daveth scoffs. “And you believe every word that comes out of Littlefinger’s mouth? He’s good at what he does, yes, but I’m afraid he puts only his interests ahead of everyone else. He would rather see the Seven Kingdoms burn to the ground in the chaos if he could be king of the ashes. Even if Lady Catelyn does trust Littlefinger simply on the basis of being childhood friends, don’t. You’ll only invite trouble.”

“Then…” Eddard said. “I should keep my guard up.”

“Yes, you should. Remember: this is not the North. King’s Landing can be a very dangerous pit of vipers to the uninitiated.” Daveth said. “And besides… I’d rather ensure the well-being of my soon-to-be father-in-Law, no?”

Eddard allowed himself a chuckle. “Seems what my wife said about is true, after all. You’re a good lad.”

Daveth frowned slightly. “No, I’m not,” he said quietly. “But perhaps you wouldn’t mind showing up at the tournament? I fear father would tear King’s Landing to the ground if he doesn’t see you there again.”

* * *

**At the Tourney of the Hand…**

* * *

Eddard Stark finally arrived at the grounds where the Tourney of the Hand. The joust was hereby resuming, and the round was between Prince Daveth Baratheon and the Mountain. Ser Gregor bows before King Robert before he and his horse take off down one lane of the track.

After the disastrous incident involving the death of Ser Hugh of the Vale at Ser Gregor’s hands, Sansa had been rather quiet. Arya wasn’t there, but Eddard was. He noticed his youngest daughters missing presence.

“Where’s Arya?” He asks Sansa.

“At her dancing lessons,” she answered. She turned and saw Daveth in full armor approach, making her smile warmly. “My Prince.”

“Lady Sansa,” he nods.

Before Daveth departs, Sansa unveils a blue scarf with the sigil of House Stark she embroidered onto it and wraps it around Daveth’s neck. Carefully folded, the crowd took notice that Sansa had given the Crown Prince her favor. Daveth nods in understanding before riding to bow before his father, also taking off down the opposite track.

“Don’t let Ser Gregor hurt him,” Sansa pleaded to her father, holding his arm tightly. “I can’t watch.”

“Hey,” Eddard reassures his daughter. “The Oathkeeper rides well. He’ll be alright.”

By then Ser Gregor Clegane was in position. He was huge, the biggest man that Eddard Stark had ever seen. Robert Baratheon, his brothers and eldest son Daveth were all big men, as was the Hound, and back at Winterfell there was a simpleminded (yet rumored half-giant) Hodor who dwarfed them all, but the knight they called the Mountain would have towered over Hodor. He was well over seven feet tall, closer to eight, with massive shoulders and arms thick as the trunks of small trees. His horse seemed a pony in between his armored legs, and the lance he carried looked as small as a broom handle.

Unlike his brother, Ser Gregor did not live at court. He was a solitary man who seldom left his own lands, but for wars and tourneys. He had been with Lord Tywin when King’s Landing fell, a new-made knight of twenty-three years, even then distinguished by his size and his implacable ferocity. Some said it had been Gregor who’d repeatedly stabbed princess Rhaeyns Targaryen to death, dashed the skull of the infant prince Aegon Targaryen against a wall, and whispered that afterward he had raped the mother, the Dornish princess Elia Martell, before putting her to the sword. These things were not said in Gregor’s hearing.

Daveth knew how dangerous his opponent was. But lucky enough for him, Ser Gregor was a kind of man who lacked a strategic thought in his head; allowing Daveth to quickly strategize scenarios and plans to outsmart the fearsome Mountain. After putting on his helmet, Daveth raised his left arm holding his shield whilst bringing the lance in his right hand down. Straightening the lance as an arrow, he looked ready to charge.

“100 gold dragons on the Mountain!” a spectator bets.

Another spoke up. “Seven hells! I’ll see that bet and raise you 200 on the Oathkeeper.”

“400 on the Mountain!”

“900 on the Oathkeeper!”

A trumpet is heard and both competitors race down their lances. Ser Gregor brought his stallion broke in a hard gallop, plunging forward wildly, while Daveth’s horse charged as smooth as a flow of silk. Ser Gregor wrenched his shield into position, juggled with his lance, and all the while fought to hold his unruly mount on a straight line, and suddenly Daveth Baratheon was on him, thrusting the point of his lance with quick precision and power, and in an eye blink the Mountain was failing. He was so huge that he took his horse down with him in a tangle of steel and flesh.

Eddard Stark heard thunderous applause, cheers, whistles, shocked gasps, and excited muttering. Prince Daveth reined up at the end of the lists and advanced to the final round against the Knight of the Flowers, Ser Loras Tyrell. Loras was impressed by the Crown Prince’s feat, and had his attendants prepare him. Daveth’s lance was not even broken. His armor was not even scratched as he rode to the center with confidence as he raised his visor.

In the middle of the field, Ser Gregor Clegane disentangled himself and came boiling to his feet. He wrenched off his helm and slammed it down onto the ground. His face was dark with fury and angrily stormed off.

“The final round of the jousting competition of the Hand’s Tourney will take place tomorrow morning!” the royal steward announced. “Prince Daveth of House Baratheon will face off against Ser Loras of House Tyrell!”

An epic match was underway. Both the Oathkeeper and the Knight of Flowers exchanged glances, each of them prepping themselves for what seemed to be the toughest match the two young men ever had.


	12. Tourney of the Hand (The Oathkeeper vs. the Knight of the Flowers)

“Where is it? Where is it? Where is it?” complained Lancel Lannister.

He bolted and scrambled looking from tent to tent, building to building. Daveth was still in full armor and took a moment to get himself ready for the final round against Ser Loras Tyrell, son of Lord Mace Tyrell and heir to Highgarden; Ser Loras was known his good looks and reputation for winning many tournament victories, held in high regard as one of the most skilled knights in Westeros. In Daveth’s eyes, this makes the Knight of the Flowers a formidable opponent. The joust will either come down to who lands a decisive blow or who can outlast the other.

The Crown Prince was examining the prize to the champion: apparently in addition to 40,000 gold dragons, but the champion would be given a victor’s crown made of blue winter roses to bestow upon any woman present and name her the Queen of Love and Beauty. Traditionally the victor often chooses a woman he loves or intends to court, yet it can also be a source of scandal if the victor crowns a woman already bound to another man or if a married man crowns someone other than his wife.

_‘I don’t remember including that in the list of prizes…’_  Daveth thought. He stopped to turn to look at his panicking second cousin, who was still making quite a ruckus. “Cousin Lancel, what are you looking for?” he groaned.

“I have to find the breastplate stretcher for the King, Prince Daveth,” he answered. “Your father’s armor won’t fit him!”

“A what?”

“Breastplate stretcher!”

Daveth tried not to grin at what he just heard, biting his lip to keep himself from laughing. “Lancel, there’s no such thing as a 'breastplate stretcher.’ It doesn’t exist.”

Lancel stopped in his tracks and stood still. He looked at Daveth, confused before realization finally dawned on him. “Seven hells…” he groaned. “Why does he keep doing this to me?”

“Pay him no mind. Father tends to overstep his bounds and be a bit mean to his squires.”

“I thought it was the greatest honor when your grandfather, Lord Tywin, named me the King’s squire. But this…” he sighed, almost as if in tears. “This is humiliating.”

“Try to endure it as long as you can. It won’t be long before you yourself receive your knighthood.”

“I really hope so, my Prince. What was it like? When you were knighted?”

Daveth reminisced, thinking about the event last year. “It’s not as easy as you think, Lancel. Squires are required to undergo years of extensive training to become a full-fledged knight. A bit expensive, perhaps, but the results in the end speak for themselves,” he explained. “Others are simply rewarded with it depending on their achievement in service to the Crown.”

“Did the King simply grant you one?”

“Mother suggested it. Father seemed inclined, but I chose to work for it like the other squires; took me eight long years of combat training. Once that’s done, you are summoned to attend your own knighting ceremony.” He spoke in a deep tone, reciting the vows he took last year. “'In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women…’” Daveth finished, returning to his normal tone of voice. “These are the vows all knights swear, but it varies immensely depending on the individual; even more so while trying to obey the law and uphold your vows at the same time.”

Lancel looked fascinated. “Who did you squire for?”

“Ser Barristan Selmy.”

“You mean Barristan the Old?”

“You know I much I hate it when people brazenly call him that; especially in front of me,” Daveth furrowed his brow. “Barristan may be an old man, but the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is a good man and one of the most formidable knights Westeros has ever seen. A man I was proud to squire for. So mind your manners next time, cousin.”

“I… I’m sorry, my Prince,” Lancel quickly apologized. “I… I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Daveth calmed down upon acknowledging the apology as sincere. “You didn’t know. Just be more careful next time, alright?”

On que, a royal steward comes in.

“Excuse me, my Prince. But the round is about to begin.”

“Understood,” Daveth nodded. “I’ll be there momentarily.”

The steward bowed and exited the tent. Daveth stood from his seat, getting ready to take to the track. Lancel followed close behind him.

“And now it begins,” Lancel remarked.

“No,” Daveth shook his head. “Now it ends.”

* * *

**At the Tourney of the Hand…**

* * *

Now back at the jousting track, both Ser Loras Tyrell and Prince Daveth Baratheon arrive. The two young men rode on their horses, bowing before King Robert and exchanging glances at each other.

“Good luck to you, Prince Daveth,” Loras said. His hair was a mass of lazy brown curls, eyes glowing like liquid blue gold.

“And to you, Ser Loras,” Daveth replied.

Loras exchanges looks with Lord Renly Baratheon, whom he returned gazes. The Knight of the Flowers was Renly’s former squire and, according to rumors, Renly’s lover. Daveth heard about the scandalous rumors himself at court, being slightly bothered by it but chose not to say anything out of respect to his uncle. His horse began behaving rather strangely, with Daveth having to steady his mount. Loras smirked and took off down one lane with his white horse.

_'Using a mare in heat to distract my stallion in order to throw us both off-balance…’_  Daveth deduced.  _'Very sneaky, Loras.’_

Daveth took to the opposite track, getting his shield and lance ready; and prepping to stabilize his stallion during the charge should it get distracted again.

Sansa was with her father in the crowd watching the final two competitors. She had never seen anyone so beautiful. Ser Loras’s armor was intricately fashioned and enameled as a bouquet of a thousand different flowers, and his snow-white stallion was draped in a blanket of red and white roses. After each victory, Loras would remove his helm and ride slowly round the fence, and finally pluck a single white rose from the blanket and toss it to some fair maiden in the crowd.

“Please let them both be alright,” Sansa whispered quietly to himself.

Both competitors lowered their lances, ready to charge. And when the trumpet sounded both Loras and Daveth charged fiercely. As he expected, Daveth’s stallion behaved strangely again as the two men approached; the Crown Prince maintaining stability of both his lance and his balance. In near unison, both riders crashed, lances colliding against the other’s shield.

***CRASH!***

The impact nearly caused Daveth to almost fall off of his mount yet fought to keep himself up as he gripped the saddle with both his legs, but just barely.

“Steady now,” he told his horse.

Loras turned around with confidence, getting his horse ready for another charge. Once regaining his balance, Daveth clicked his tongue and whistled sharply – signaling his stallion to charge again. As both Tyrell and Baratheon competitors charged again and again, Petyr Baelish stood in the crowd.

“100 gold dragons on the Oathkeeper.”

Renly took notice. “I’ll take that bet.”

“You’d really bet against your own nephew, Lord Renly?” Petyr asked. “Anyway, what will I buy with 100 gold dragons? A dozen barrels of Dornish wine? Or a girl from the pleasure houses of Lys?”

“Or you could buy a friend.”

***CRASH!***

Loras and Daveth’s lances collided again, each smacking head-on against their respective shields. After an estimated nine charges, both their lances and shields had begun to crack. Any more and they’ll shatter. The Knight of the Flowers was indeed a worthy opponent, and Loras himself was becoming aware that his strategy was starting to distract Daveth’s stallion was beginning to fail. Sheer confidence giving way to outright seriousness, Loras and Daveth charged faster and hit each other a lot harder. Both of their armors and shields were beginning to dent after each impact.

***CRASH!***

Again, both tried hard to dismount the other – but still neither of them would fall off. They both went around, getting ready for another charge.

“Okay, now this is really starting to hurt…” Daveth groaned.

His left arm had become sore and he’d started to favor it a bit, feeling it beginning to swell inside of his armor from having to absorb the impact of Loras’s lance against his shield repeatedly. His arm was gradually starting to lower, but the Oathkeeper grunted as he forcibly raised it higher again.

“Look at them go!” One of the spectators exclaimed.

Another chimed in. “They just won’t go down!”

“What stamina!”

“The ferocity!”

“Such determination and brilliance amongst these two young men!”

“For Highgarden!”

“For the Oathkeeper!”

“Go, Ser Loras!”

“Fight on, Prince Daveth!”

“Knight of the Flowers!”

“Oathkeeper!”

The longer the joust continued the more rowdy and excited the crowd had become. It had been a hard-fought match between Loras Tyrell and Daveth Baratheon; neither of them was willing to back down. A dozen times Jeyne and Sansa cried out in unison as riders crashed together, lances colliding against shields while the smallfolk screamed for their favorites. Jeyne Poole covered her eyes whenever a man fell, like a frightened little girl, but Sansa was made of sterner stuff. A great lady knew how to behave at tournaments. Even Septa Mordane noted her composure and nodded in approval.

“Quite the stubborn one, aren’t you, Oathkeeper?” Loras spoke quietly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You are a Baratheon, after all.”

Both Loras and Daveth were visibly exhausted and sore; they both knew that this charge could be the last one. The final round of the jousting competition had been going on all day and the sun was beginning to set. King Robert had been watching the two rather closely, growing more loud and rambunctious.

“Loras knew his mare was in heat,” Petyr said, the notion seemed to amuse him. “Quite crafty, really.”

It did not, however, amuse Sansa. “Ser Loras would never do that!” she protested. “There’s no honor in tricks.”

“No honor but quite a bit of gold. But Prince Daveth’s a smart lad and cunning strategist. It didn’t take long from him to figure it out: He knew right away of Loras’s plot and planned several steps ahead.”

King Robert then stood up. Jon Arryn told him that a commander needs a good battlefield, and Robert proved the truth of that during the Battle of the Trident. He used that voice now.

“IN THE NAME OF YOUR KING,” he boomed, “WILL THE BOTH OF YOU JUST CHARGE ALREADY!”

On que, Daveth and Loras immediately charged with their lances at the ready – both wavering slightly. Using every ounce of strength, Daveth and Loras thrust forward with all their might.

***CRASH!***

Both lances finally exploded into splinters and both shields cracked in half. The crowd gasped. By the time the splinters had settled, they saw something unexpected. Ser Loras Tyrell was rolling in the dirt, his clean armor dented as he fell to the ground from his saddle with a loud thud. Prince Daveth, now without a shield and his lance shattered, was leaning forward on his stallion exhausted.

“Such a shame, Lord Renly,” Petyr gloated.

Renly frowned as he looked at Ser Loras, glad to see the Knight of the Flowers getting to his feet. Daveth rode to Loras and dismounted, stumbling a bit as he grunted in discomfort. He extended his hand forward, offering to help Ser Loras up. Loras graciously accepted and groaned as he stood upwards.

“What a spectacle that was, Prince Daveth,” Loras complimented. “Good show!”

Daveth nodded, allowing a small chuckle. “Indeed it was, Ser Loras. You were by far one of the toughest knights I had ever faced.”

King Robert roared in laughter and clapped loudly, pleased with the joust competition. The royal steward soon stepped forward.

“With the unseating of Ser Loras of House Tyrell, it is my honor to declare Prince Daveth of House Baratheon the winner of the joust competition!”

The crowd stood in unison and cheered. Daveth, in a show of sportsmanship, lifted Loras’s arm in the air as well, acknowledging the Knight of the Flowers out of respect for his skills. This moved caused the crowd to cheer much louder. Both Daveth and Loras bowed their heads to all in attendance, before getting down to one knee to catch their breath.

“As the champion of the joust,” the steward called out, getting Daveth’s attention, “it is the honor of His Grace that you be awarded 40,000 gold dragons and the victor’s crown! You now are free to choose this year’s Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Daveth took the champion’s purse and saw the victor’s crown of blue winter roses approach. He took the crown and looked at the audience, and the crowd looked on in anticipation. Daveth then made his way towards Sansa, despite being quite sore.

“My lords and ladies of Westeros,” he spoke. “This tournament not only allowed us a chance to hone the skills of our distinguished knights and their squires currently present, but the tournament itself also moment of reprieve; the opportunity… for us to put all differences aside and come together as one.”

The crowd listened closely.

“Each of you assembled here today are the pillars that hold up this world; the very foundation that holds the Seven Kingdoms together. So long as these lungs carry breath, the Crown will ensure that each pillar throughout the realm not only remains standing but also thrives. This victory is not mine alone. But rather this moment belongs to all of you.”

The crowd and smallfolk stood in applause.

“With that being said,” Daveth said as he held up the victor’s crown, “it is my distinct pleasure to bestow the victor’s crown upon the woman of my choosing.”

The crowd grew silent, waiting in anticipation. After several coughs and whispers, Daveth spoke up.

“My lords and ladies… I hereby name my betrothed, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of the King’s Hand Lord Eddard Stark, as the Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Sansa smiled as she felt tears well up, her lip beginning to tremble. The audience cheered loudly, a few dozen of fair maidens no doubt wept at the selection.

“Lady Sansa,” Daveth said as he held the victor’s crown, “will you do me the honor of accepting the offer?”

Sansa quickly nodded yes, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. “Yes, my sweet Prince,” her voice cracked. “I accept.”

With that Daveth Baratheon stood over Sansa to bestow the victor’s crown above her. She leaned forward and felt the blue winter roses being placed on her head. Sansa smiled as she felt the victor’s crown.

_'I love you,’_  Sansa thought.  _'My sweet Prince…’_

With the completion of the jousting competition, the rest of the Hand’s Tournament continued to proceed as planned.

That afternoon a boy named Anguy, an unheralded commoner from the Dornish Marches, won the archery competition, outshooting Ser Balon Swann and Jalabhar Xho at a hundred paces after all the other bowmen had been eliminated at the shorter distances. Eddard Stark sent Alyn to seek him out and offer him a position with the Hand’s guard, but the boy was flush with wine and victory and riches undreamed of, and he refused.

The melee went on for three hours. About 40 men took part, hedge knights and squires in search of a reputation. They fought with blunted weapons in a chaos of mud and blood, small troops fighting together and then turning on each other as alliances formed and fractured, until only one man was left standing. The victor was the red priest, Thoros of Myr, a madman who shaved his head and fought with a flaming sword. He had won melees before; the fire sword frightened the mounts of the other riders, and nothing frightened Thoros. The final tally was three broken limbs, a shattered collarbone, a dozen smashed fingers, two horses that had to be put down, and more cuts, sprains, and bruises than anyone cared to count.

Eddard was desperately pleased that Robert had not taken part.

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

That night at the feast, Eddard Stark was more hopeful than he had been in a great while. Robert was in high good humor, the Lannisters were nowhere to be seen, and even his daughters were behaving. Jory brought Arya down to join them, and Sansa spoke to her sister pleasantly.

“The tournament was magnificent,” she sighed. Sansa still wore the victor’s crown on her head all day. “You should have come. Prince Daveth named me the Queen of Love and Beauty. How was your dancing?”

“I’m sore all over,” Arya reported happily, proudly displaying a huge purple bruise on her leg.

“You must be a terrible dancer,” Sansa said doubtfully.

Later, while Sansa was off listening to a troupe of singers perform the complex round of interwoven ballads called the “Dance of the Dragons,” Eddard inspected the bruise himself.

“I hope Forel is not being too hard on you,” he said.

Arya stood on one leg. She was getting much better at that of late. “Syrio says that every hurt is a lesson, and every lesson makes you better.”

Eddard frowned. The man Syrio Forel had come with an excellent reputation, and his flamboyant Braavosi style dubbed the “Water Dance” was well suited to Arya’s slender blade, yet still… a few days ago, she had been wandering around with a swatch of black silk tied over her eyes. Syrio was teaching her to see with her ears and her nose and her skin, she told him. Before that, he had her doing spins and back flips.

“Arya, are you certain you want to persist in this?”

She nodded. “Tomorrow I’m going to be chasing cats.”

“Cats? Syrio says…”

“He says every swordsman should study cats,” Arya interrupted. “They’re quiet as shadows and as light as feathers. You have to be quick to catch them.”

“He’s right about that.”

Arya set her leg down. “Now that Bran’s awake will he come live with us?”

Eddard shook his head. “He needs to get his strength back first.”

“He wants to be a knight of the Kingsguard,” Arya frowned. “He can’t be one now, can he?”

“No,” her father admitted. “But someday he could be lord of a holdfast or sit on the King’s Council. Or he might raise castles like Brandon the Builder?”

“Can I be lord of a holdfast?”

“You will marry a high lord and rule his castle. And your sons shall be knights, princes and lords.”

“No! That’s not me.”

Much later, after he had taken the girls back through the city and seen them both safe in bed, Sansa with her dreams and Arya with her bruises, Eddard ascended to his own chambers. The day had been warm and the room was close and stuffy. Eddard went to the window and unfastened the heavy shutters to let in the cool night air. Across the Great Yard, he noticed the flickering glow of candlelight from Littlefinger’s windows. The hour was well past midnight. Down by the river, the revels were only now beginning to dwindle and die.

He took out the dagger and studied it. Littlefinger’s blade, won by Tyrion Lannister in a tourney wager, sent to slay Bran in his sleep. Why? Why would the dwarf want Bran dead? Why would anyone want Bran dead?

* * *

**In Daveth’s chambers…**

* * *

Daveth sat in a steaming hot bath, groaning as he felt his stiff muscles loosen. The jousting wore him out and he needed a moment to relax.

_'Thank the gods that’s over,’_  he thought.

***KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!***

His thoughts were rudely interrupted when he heard loud knocking on his door.

“What is it?” Daveth called out irritated.

“An urgent message for you, my Prince,” a voice called out.

“Tell me.”

“It’s from Lord Varys, my Prince. He says he’s received whispers from the east.”

Daveth narrowed his eyes. He knew that meant one thing.

“Daenerys Targaryen…”


	13. Ned Stark vs. Jaime Lannister

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Daveth had been prepping himself all day; he had already spoken with Varys earlier this morning about reports from Essos. When approached on the subject, Varys confirmed to Daveth what his ‘little birds’ informed him.

_'Father is going to lose his collective mind once word of this reaches him,’_  Daveth mused. _'Best to inform Lord Stark about it before someone else does…’_

He had already gathered some important documents for this upcoming Small Council meeting. Upon arriving at the Tower of the Hand, Daveth had already passed by Jory and Arya Stark.

“My lord,” Jory greeted.

“Ser Jory,” Daveth acknowledged. “Arya.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m here to speak with the Hand of the King. Is your lord available?”

Jory nodded. “He’s in his chamber with Ser Yoren of the Night’s Watch, my lord, but we’ve been told to leave them in privacy.”

“A Wandering Crow?” Daveth implored. “I take that this Yoren fellow came this far south seeking out recruits for the Watch…?”

“I believe so,” Jory said.

_'Then why have a private discussion with Lord Stark?’_  Daveth pondered.  _'It doesn’t make sense…’_ Regardless, Daveth nodded. “I see. Well in that case, I suppose I could come back later. Good day you two.”

Jory and Arya bowed their heads and made their way down the stairs, possibly exiting the Tower of the Hand. Daveth waited patiently for them to leave; now curious, the Crown Prince slowly crept forward and pressed his ear against the door, hoping to listen in to what was going on inside.

“It’s about your wife, my lord,” someone said. That voice probably belonged to Yoren.

Daveth continued to listen closely; then the ultimate bombshell was dropped.

“She’s taken the Imp.”

Daveth’s eyes widened in surprise before giving way to anger.

_'Uncle Tyrion!’_  Daveth gritted his teeth.  _'Damn it, Cat. What have you done?’_

Stepping away from the door, Daveth made his way down the steps and back onto the streets. His choice of destination was the White Sword Tower. Daveth knew trouble was coming; conflict inevitable, but the Crown Prince could only afford to bring someone he could trust other than his uncle Jaime Lannister because the youth knew exactly how the infamous Kingslayer would react.

Before he could even approach the front gates, Daveth was spotted by the first Kingsguard knight he could see.

“My Prince,” Ser Lucius Blackmyre greeted.

Tall and muscular with greyish-blue eyes and white hair and lined features, Ser Lucius Blackmyre of the Dornish Marches is a grizzled old knight the smallfolk called “the Old Bull” for wearing a bull’s-shaped helmet into battle. A formidable warrior, seasoned war veteran with more than 40 years of combat experience and one of the most brilliant military strategists in the Seven Kingdoms, Lucius fought alongside his good friend Ser Barristan Selmy in the War of the Ninepenny Kings against the last of the Blackfyre pretenders, Maelys the Monstrous, on the Stepstones. For his bravery and executing the plan to snuff out Maelys, Lucius was appointed to the Kingsguard by King Aegon V Targaryen.

Lucius went on to serve King Aerys II Targaryen and fought alongside Barristan, Lewin Martell and Prince Rhaegar Targaryen during the rebellion before being defeated by Robert Baratheon at the Battle of the Trident. Impressed with his battle plans and superb prowess on the field, Robert pardoned him upon assuming the throne. Despite his advanced age, Lucius remains surprisingly strong, cunning and graceful and every bit the skilled knight he was in his youth.

“Ser Lucius,” Daveth acknowledged.

“What brings you here, my boy?” the old knight asked, noticing the seriousness in the Crown Prince’s stance and the hint of steel in his voice.

“There will be a Small Council meeting going on soon, but once that’s done I need you and some of the City Watch to accompany me.”

Lucius raised his wrinkled eyebrow. “You suspect trouble?”

Daveth nodded. “Much. Best not to tell anyone; just get ready to move on my signal.”

Before walking away to return to the Red Keep, Daveth turned his gaze to the old knight.

“Keep this between us. And whatever you do, do not breathe a word of this to anyone. Not to Lord Stark, not mother and especially not Uncle Jaime.”

* * *

**At the Small Council chambers…**

* * *

“The whore is pregnant!” King Robert growled at Eddard Stark.

Each of the Small Council members was in attendance, including Daveth himself. As expected, Robert was livid when word of Daenerys Targaryen’s pregnancy reached his ears. To say he was furious and loud would be considered a vast understatement; Robert was fueled by his own petty hatred for the Targaryens, it still remained as fresh and vicious as it was during the rebellion.

“You’re speaking of murdering a child,” Eddard pleaded.

Robert, in his fury, refused to hear it. “I warned you this would happen. Back in the North, I warned you, but you didn’t care to hear. Well, hear it now. I want 'em dead, mother and child both. And that fool, Viserys as well. Is that plain enough for you? I want them both dead.”

Daveth and the other Small Council members were all doing their best to pretend that they were somewhere else. No doubt they were wiser than Robert was.

“You will dishonor yourself forever if you do this.”

“Honor?!” Robert slammed his fist down on the council table as loud as a thunderclap. “I’ve got seven kingdoms to rule! One king, seven kingdoms! Do you think honor keeps them in line? Do you think it’s honor that’s keeping the peace? It’s fear! Fear and blood!”

Eddard gave Robert a long cool look, having heard quite enough. “Then we’re no better than the Mad King.”

Robert’s face purpled. “Careful, Ned,” he warned, pointing. “Careful now.”

“You want to assassinate a girl… Because the Spider heard a rumor?”

“My lord, you wrong me,” Varys spoke softly, wringing powdered hands together. “I promise you it is no rumor. The princess is with child.”

“Based on who’s information?”

Daveth chimed in. “Ser Jorah Mormont, formerly the Lord of Bear Island. He is currently serving as an advisor to the Targaryens.”

“Mormont?” Eddard looked at the Crown Prince. “The eunuch brings us whispers of a traitor half a world away and you call it fact?”

“Lord Varys may be many things, Lord Stark, but he’s damned good at his duties as Master of Whisperers. I assure you the information that was provided to us is legitimate. I’d recommend you listen rather closely before simply dismissing him out of turn.”

“So you say. If you are wrong, we need not fear. If the girl miscarries, we need not fear. If she births a daughter in place of a son, we need not fear. If the babe dies in infancy, we need not fear.”

“But if it  _is_  a boy?” Robert insisted. “If he lives?”

Daveth felt a headache coming on and raised his hands to massage his temple in a circular motion. He knew this Small Council meeting would be rather hectic, especially with both his father and Eddard Stark in the same room arguing back and forth on how to deal with Daenerys Targaryen and her unborn child.

“Jorah Mormont’s a slaver, not a traitor,” Petyr Baelish spoke up. “Small difference, I know, to an honorable man.”

“He broke the law, betrayed his family, fled our land. We commit murder on the word of this man?”

Daveth sighed wearily. “I understand your qualms, Lord Stark. Really, I do. Yet we who presume to rule often must do vile things for the good of the realm, however much it pains us.”

“And you did such things, Oathkeeper?” Eddard pressed.

“I didn’t get to where I am now in order to be called that without getting my hands bloody,” Daveth retorted. “Call it what you will, but the things we do is so that good men, honorable men such as yourself and Jon Arryn wouldn’t have to.”

Renly shrugged. “The matter seems simple enough to me. We ought to have had Viserys and his sister killed years ago, but His Grace my brother made the mistake of listening to Jon Arryn.”

“Mercy is never a mistake, Lord Renly,” Eddard replied. He knew he was pushing this well past the point of wisdom, yet he couldn’t keep silent. “Daveth, Jon Arryn fostered your father and I at the Vale. He thought of you as his own grandson, taught you everything you needed to know.”

Daveth frowned. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“What if Varys is right?” Robert growled interruptedly. “If she has a son? A Targaryen at the head of a Dothraki army… What then?”

“The Narrow Sea still lies between us,” Eddard said. “I’ll fear the Dothraki the day teach their horses to run on water.”

“Do nothing? That’s your wise advice? Do nothing 'til our enemies are on our shores?” Robert bellowed, looking at the Small Council for support. “You’re my council? Counsel! Speak sense to this honorable fool. Have you forgotten who is King here?”

“No, father,” Daveth replied. “I  _would_ , however, advise you to lower your tone of voice… and calm yourself. Wisdom often comes when the mind is settled and clear, not disturbed by meaningless obsessions and past grudges.”

“Quiet, boy!” Robert bellowed, slamming his fist again. “I’m sick of talk. I’ll be done with this, or be damned. What say you all?”

Varys gave Robert an unctuous smile. “I understand your misgivings, my lord. Truly, I do. It is a terrible thing we must consider, a vile thing. Yet, we who presume to rule must sometimes do vile things for the good of the realm. Should the gods grant Daenerys a son, the realm will bleed.”

“I bear this girl no ill will,” Grand Maester Pycelle cleared his throat, a process that seemed to take some minutes, “but should the Dothraki invade, how many innocents will die? How many towns will burn? Is it not wiser, kinder even, that she should die now so that tens of thousands might live?”

“We should have had them both killed years ago,” Renly declared.

Petyr stifled a yawn. “When you find yourself in bed with an ugly woman, best close your eyes, get it over with. Cut her throat. Be done with it.”

Daveth was the last. As Eddard looked to him, Daveth shook his head and shrugged. “I’m not in favor of acting recklessly nor will I approve any motion put forward that might overextend our hand and jeopardize plans that’ll affect us in the long run. However, I’m also not in favor of simply standing around doing nothing either. Both ideas presented to this council have demonstrated the lack of such necessary precautions we need to ensure what must be done for the good of the realm,” he spoke, indicating his neutral stance.

“This is what needs to be done, boy!” Robert roared.

“You  _asked_  for advice, father, and I’ve given it!” Daveth shouted back. “We all have!”

Robert turned to face his Hand. “Well, there it is, Ned. You and Daveth stand alone on this matter.”

_'Did you not hear a word I just said?! My words did not indicate which side I’m on and you know it, you drunken fat fuck!’_  Daveth thought bitterly.

“I’m out of wine and out of patience,” Robert continued. “Enough of this. Just have it done.”

Eddard said nothing, but leaned forward against the table. He was coldly staring at Robert in the eyes. “I followed you into war – twice, without doubts, without second thoughts. But I will not follow you now. I will not be part of murder,” he said. “Do as you will, but do not ask me to fix my seal for it. The Robert I grew up with didn’t tremble at the shadow of an unborn child.”

“She dies.”

“I will have no part in it.”

For a moment Robert did not seem to understand what Ned was saying. Defiance was not a dish he tasted often. Slowly his face changed as comprehension came. His eyes narrowed and a flush crept up his neck past the velvet collar. He pointed an angry finger at Eddard.

“You are the King’s Hand, Lord Stark. You’ll do as I command or I’ll find me a Hand who will.”

That was the last straw. Knowing that Robert will not back down or reconsider his decision, Eddard unfastened the heavy clasp that clutched at the folds of his cloak, the ornate gold hand that was his badge of office. He laid it on the table in front of Robert, saddened by the memory of the man who had pinned it on him, the childhood friend he had considered a brother.

“And good luck to him. I thought you were a better man.”

Robert’s face was purple. “Out!” he croaked, choking on his rage. “Out, damn you! I’m done with you! Go! Run back to Winterfell! I’ll have your head on a spike! I’ll put it there myself, you fool! You think you’re too good for this? Too proud and honorable? This is a war!”

By then, Eddard had already turned on his heel without another word. He could feel Robert’s eyes on his back. As he strode from the council chambers, the discussion resumed with scarcely a pause. The closing of the door behind him silenced the voices.

But little did he know… a certain Prince had followed him.

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

The day felt heavy and oppressive as he crossed the bailey back to the Tower of the Hand. He could feel the threat of rain in the air. Eddard would have welcomed it. It might have made him feel a trifle less unclean. Whilst packing his belongings, Eddard summoned Jory.

“I’ll go ahead with my daughters,” he told his captain of the guard. “Get them ready. Do it yourself. Don’t ask anyone for help.”

“Right away, my lord,” Jory replied.

“We may not have a fortnight. We may not have a day. The king mentioned something about seeing my head on a spike.” Ned frowned. He did not truly believe the king would harm him, not Robert. He was angry now, but once Ned was safely out of sight, his rage would cool as it always did.

Suddenly, uncomfortably, he found himself recalling Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. Seventeen years dead, yet Robert hated him as much as ever. It was a disturbing notion… and there was the other matter, the business with Catelyn and the dwarf that Yoren had warned him of last night. That would come to light soon, as sure as sunrise, and with the king in such a black fury… Robert might not care a fig for Tyrion Lannister, but it would touch on his pride, and there was no telling what Queen Cersei might do; or his soon-to-be son-in-law Prince Daveth… provided that the betrothal were allowed to be resumed.

When he had gone, Eddard Stark went to the window and sat brooding. Robert had left him no choice that he could see. He ought to thank him. It would be good to return to Winterfell. He ought never have left. His sons were waiting there. Perhaps he and Catelyn would make a new son together when he returned, they were not so old yet. And of late he had often found himself dreaming of snow, of the deep quiet of the wolfswood at night. And yet, the thought of leaving angered him as well. So much was still undone. Robert and his council of cravens and flatterers would beggar the realm if left unchecked or, worse, sell it to the Lannisters in payment of their loans.

And the truth of Jon Arryn’s death still eluded him even with Daveth’s aid. Oh, he had found a few pieces, enough to convince him that Jon had indeed been murdered, but that was no more than the spoor of an animal on the forest floor. He had not sighted the beast itself yet, though he sensed it was there, lurking, hidden, and treacherous.

Jory had no sooner taken his leave when his steward announced a visitor. “Lord Baelish is here for you, m'lord.”

Littlefinger sauntered into the solar as if nothing had gone amiss that morning. He wore a slashed velvet doublet in cream-and-silver, a grey silk cloak trimmed with black fox, and his customary mocking smile.

“His Grace went on about you at some length after you took your leave,” he said. “The word 'treason’ was mentioned.”

Eddard greeted him coldly. “What can I do for you?”

“When do you return to Winterfell?” he asked.

“Why? What do you care?”

“Your daughters might,” Petyr suggested. “Your soon-to-be son-in-law might… if the match is to continue. If you’re still here come nightfall, I’ll take you to see the last person Jon Arryn spoke with before falling ill. If that sort of thing still interests you.”

Eddard shook his head. “I don’t have the time.”

“It won’t take more than an hour. But as you please.”

As soon as Baelish exits Eddard’s chambers, the Stark patriarch turns to Jory briefly.

“Round up all the men we have and station them outside the girls’ chambers. Who are your best two swords?”

“Heward and Wyl,” Jory answers.

Eddard nods. “Find them and meet me at the stables.”

* * *

**At one of Littlefinger’s brothels…**

* * *

Petyr had taken Eddard to see the sleeping infant Barra, King Robert’s bastard daughter sired with the prostitute Mhaegen. She told him everything she knew about Jon Arryn, how he was always checking on her daughter to be sure she was happy and healthy. Mhaegen also asked Eddard to see if Robert was available; she wasn’t seeing anyone and was always his favorite. Petyr told Eddard of how many bastards Robert sired in King’s Landing and yet somehow Jon Arryn managed to track them all down. Eddard and Jory soon leave the brothel with a few of the Stark household guards. But before they could leave, they find themselves suddenly surrounded by Jaime Lannister and his men. Somehow word of Tyrion’s capture reached him and judging by his posture as well as seeing his sword in hand, Jaime was furious. He came seeking blood.

“Such a small pack of wolves,” Jaime said.

“Stay back, ser!” Jory warns. “This is the Hand of the King!”

“ _Was_  the Hand of the King. Now I’m not sure what he is… Lord of somewhere very far away.”

Petyr walked outside, step by careful step. “What’s the meaning of this, Lannister?”

“Get back inside where it’s safe.”

“Lannister, this is madness. We’re expected back at the castle. Do you have any notion as to what the King or the Crown Prince would say? What do you think you’re doing?”

“He knows what he’s doing,” Eddard said calmly.

Jaime Lannister smirked. “I’m looking for my brother. You remember my brother, don’t you, Lord Stark? Blonde hair, sharp tongue… short man.”

“I remember him well."

“It seems he had some trouble on the road. My lord father is quite vexed. I’m sure the same could be said for my nephew. You wouldn’t know what happened to him, don’t you?”

“He was taken at my command to answer for his crimes.”

His grin quickly replaced with fury, Jaime ripped his longsword from its sheath, causing both Lannister and Stark soldiers to draw their swords as well, except for Eddard. The Stark household guards were outnumbered four to fifteen.

“My lords!” Petyr did not need to be urged, making his way inside to send word. “I’ll bring the City Watch!”

Jaime stepped forward, sword at the ready. “Come, Stark,” he coolly challenged. “I’d rather you die sword in hand.”

Jory stepped in front of Jaime. “If you threaten my lord again…”

“Threaten? As in, 'I’m going to open your lord from balls to brains and see what Starks are made of’?”

Eddard calmly stood his ground. “You kill me, your brother’s a dead man.”

Jaime grinned. “You’re right,” he said as he glanced back at his soldiers. “Take him alive! Kill his men!”

The first of Jaime’s men threw their spears straight into the chests of two of Eddard’s men.

***SLASH!***

***SWING!***

***CLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***PIERCE!***

***SWISH!***

***THRUST!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

Eddard draws his sword and moves towards Jaime, fending off several guards in the process. Jory gets to Jaime first. However, Jaime deflects Jory’s thrust and fatally stabs him through his eye with a dagger. The fighting ceases and Eddard moves forward to Jaime, Jaime’s men all stop to watch the fight.

***CLASH!***

***SLASH!***

***SWING!***

***THRUST!***

***CLANG!***

***SWISH!***

***SLASH!***

***THRUST!***

The two fend each other off, as they break. Before either Jaime Lannister or Eddard Stark could make another move, the fight was quick to an abrupt end by a thundering shout.

“STOP THIS MADNESS IN THE NAME OF MY FATHER THE KING!”

Both Stark and Lannister turned to see Prince Daveth Baratheon charging into view with Ser Lucius Blackmyre alongside, both men were on their horses and had their swords drawn as two Kingsguard knights and a dozen City Watchmen began to flood the streets.

“Daveth?” Eddard exclaims in surprise.

“Get back to the Red Keep, nephew,” Jaime frowns. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“Speak when spoken to, boy!” hollered Luicius. “Remember you’re a Kingsguard, no longer a Lannister; even if you pretend to act as one.”

“Now,” Daveth spoke calmly yet coolly. “Both of you lay down your arms and back away. I won’t say it again.”

Now both Eddard Stark and Jaime Lannister came to the conclusion that Daveth had come prepared in case if something like this were to happen. Surrounded on all sides, Eddard and Jaime threw down their swords as the City Watchmen took them away.

“Orders, my lord?” one of them asked.

Lucius looked at Daveth. The Prince composed himself before speaking.

“Take Lord Eddard Stark and Ser Jaime Lannister into custody. The rest of you, get these bodies off the street!”

The Kingsguard knights and City Watchmen were quick to obey, and soon had both Eddard and Jaime arrested.

“Have them brought to the Red Keep,” Daveth ordered. “Ser Lucius, send word to both my father the King and my mother the Queen. Tell them everything that’s happened here.”

“At once, my lord,” Lucius complied and rode off to the Red Keep as the crowds began to disperse.

Daveth took a moment to look at the dead Stark and Lannister bodies that littered the streets.

_'So it’s come to this… I fear it will only get worse,’_  Daveth thought before an idea popped into his head.  _'I need to act first and move swiftly before grandfather does…’_


	14. Tested Loyalties

* * *

  **At Renly Baratheon’s chambers…**

* * *

In a small room in King’s Landing, the Master of Laws Lord Renly Baratheon sits shirtless in a chair with his lover Ser Loras Tyrell, who is also shirtless, kneeling beside him lathering thick cream to shave Renly.

“Lord Stark’s lucky he still has a head,” Loras remarked.

“Robert will rant for a few days, but he won’t do anything,” Renly replied. “He adores the man. Still, I’ve got to give my nephew credit for talking back to Robert like that.”

“You’re jealous,” Loras teases before bringing the blade close to Renly’s chest.

Renly sees the blade. “Are you sure this won’t hurt?” he asks worriedly.

“Only if I slip."

“And you prefer me like this?”

“Mhmm.”

Renly remains motionless as he continues to keep his eyes focused on the razor-sharp blade as his chest is getting shaved.

“If you want hairless, maybe you should find a little boy."

“I want you,” Loras countered.

Renly sighed and shook his head. “My brother thinks that anyone who hasn’t been to war isn’t a man. He treated me and Daveth as if we’re spoiled children.”

“Well you know how the Queen would react. She’d tear down the realm before she’d let her son fight.”

“Maybe you’re right. Still treats us like spoiled children, though.”

He turns and notices Loras slyly grinning at him.

“Oh, and you’re not?” Renly mocked. “Loras Tyrell, the Knight of the Flowers? How many wars have you fought in? Oh, and how much did your father spend on that armor of yours?”

“Hold still,” Loras said annoyed.

Renly sat motionless as he continued his tirade. “All I ever hear from Robert and Stannis is how I’m not tough enough, how I squirm at the sight of blood.”

“You did vomit when that boy’s eye was knocked out in the melee."

“His eye was dangling out of the damn socket!”

“He shouldn’t have entered the melee if he didn’t know how to fight.”

“Easy for you to say. Not everyone is such a gifted swordsman.”

Loras shook his head. “It’s not a gift. No one gave it to me. I’m good because I work at it – every day of my life since I could hold a stick. The same could be said of your nephew Prince Daveth, though,” he said – still remembering the jousting competition between him and the Oathkeeper, how tough an opponent he was and the only one to unseat him.

“His accomplishments are overrated anyway,” Renly stated. “I could work at fighting all day, every day, and still never be as good as the both of you.”

“Yes well, I guess we’ll never know,” Loras rolled his eyes. Finished with Renly’s chest, he wipes him off and raises his arm so he can shave Renly’s armpit.

“Everywhere?”

“Everywhere. So… how did it end up? The Targaryen girl will die?”

“It needs to be done, unpleasant as it is. Robert’s rather tasteless about it. Every time he talks about killing her, I swear the table rises six inches.”

“It’s a shame he can’t muster the same enthusiasm for his wife.”

Renly chuckled briefly. “Daveth said the exact same thing,” he frowns for a moment. “Robert does have a deep abiding lust for her money, though. You have to give it to the Lannisters, they may be the most pompous, ponderous cunts the gods ever suffered to walk the world, but they do have an outrageous amount of money.”

Loras looks up at Renly. “ _I_  have an outrageous amount of money,” he points out.

“Not as much as the Lannisters,” Renly states.

“But a lot more than _you_."

Indeed, out of all the noble Houses of the Seven Kingdoms, the top two wealthiest families are the Lannisters and the Tyrells. House Lannister is the richest due to their vast amount of gold mines, while House Tyrell is the second richest due to their crops since the Reach is the most fertile region in the realm and helps keep the people of King’s Landing fed.

“Robert’s threatening to take me hunting with him,” Renly continued.

Loras raises his eyebrow. “The Prince isn’t going with him?”

“He suggested he’d hold court for a few days until his return. Last time we were out there for two weeks, tramping through the trees in the rain, day after day. All so he can stick his spear into something’s flesh!” he sighs. “Oh, but Robert loves his killing. And he’s the King.”

“Hmm… How did that happen?”

“Because he loves his killing and he used to be good at it. Before he got all fat and lazy, that is.”

“Do you know who should be King?” Loras asked.

Renly appeared startled. That question seemed to have come out of nowhere. “Be serious,” he finally spoke.

“I am,” Loras stated. “My father could be your bank. I’ve never fought in a war before, but I’d fight for you.”

“I’m fifth in line!”

“And where was Robert in the line of royal succession? Daveth is your nephew, yes, but he’s also half-Lannister and never backed down when it comes to issuing threats. Harsh ones, I might add. Who do you think he’d fill the court with?”

_‘Daveth wouldn’t do that… would he?’_  Renly thought. He knew how Daveth earned the nickname “Oathkeeper” and the methods he used to acquire it. That line of thought disturbed him.

“Daveth is an unknown,” Loras continued. “Joffrey is a monster, Tommen is a child…”

“What about Stannis?”

“Stannis has the personality of a lobster.”

“He’s still my older brother. Besides, even if I wanted to, half the Stormlands would be divided between me and Daveth. He’s my nephew. I can’t be King.”

***NICK!***

Renly gasped as he felt a sharp pinch under his arm. “What are you doing?!” he exclaimed in surprise, noticing the blood slowly trickling down his flank.

“Look at it,” Loras pointed at the cut.

“You cut me!”

“It’s just blood. We’ve all got it in us. Sometimes a little spills. If you become King, you’re going to see a lot of this. You need to get used to it. Go on. Look.”

Renly hesitantly did as his lover told him, and looked at his life’s fluid before Loras cleaned it up.

“People love you. They love to serve you because you’re kind to them. They want to be near you.” Loras took Renly’s hands and lifted him up to eye-level. “You’re willing to do what needs to be done, but you don’t gloat over it. You don’t love killing,” Loras grinned as he began undoing Renly’s trousers. “Where is it written that power is the sole province of the worst? That thrones are only made for the hated and the feared?” As the final laces came undone, Renly stood naked before Loras as the Knight of the Flowers cupped his lover’s cheek, pressing his lips against Renly’s. “You would be a wonderful King.”

Loras then took Renly to bed, where the two proceeded to have sex. In that moment of intimacy, Renly thought over Loras’s suggestions.

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

The past several weeks have been nothing but a living hell for the Crown Prince. His father’s outburst at the Small Council, Eddard Stark’s apparent resignation, and now a fight erupted in the streets involving Lord Stark and Ser Jaime Lannister. A City Watchman informed Daveth that the dead Stark and Lannister bodies had been removed; though that did little to quell the fears of those who witnessed the whole ordeal. One of Daveth’s contacts in the city, Bodrin, whom the Prince appointed to represent the smallfolk population in King’s Landing, informed him that the arrests caught the attention of his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock; the Old Lion had been gathering his forces to prepare a siege on Riverrun in response to Catelyn Stark’s abduction of Tyrion Lannister.

Luckily by that time, Daveth had already sent ravens ahead to both his grandfather and Lord Hoster Tully – demanding that both sides cease hostilities and stand down. Although word did arrive that Tyrion had won a trial by combat and was on his way to the capital, Daveth had to call in a lot of favors and pull a lot of strings with his contacts stationed in the Westerlands to placate his incensed grandfather. Lord Tywin, already an old man, was the richest and most powerful man in Westeros; commanding an intimidating yet very powerful presence, even Daveth had to be extremely careful when dealing with him. And the years have not made Tywin kinder. Only when Daveth’s words his letter sent to Tywin detailing Jaime’s questioning and subsequent release to the White Sword Tower did Tywin seem to relent. He only cared about his eldest son more than any of his children and still considers Jaime his lawful heir despite the younger Lannister’s vows to the Kingsguard.

Daveth held up a letter sent to him by his grandfather. “Inform your uncle that attacking Ned Stark was stupid and that Lannisters don’t act like fools,” was what the message simply said.

“Talk about cutting it close…” Daveth breathed a sigh of relief.

“What did it say?” Bodrin asked.

“Lord Tully… and my lord grandfather have agreed to withdraw their troops, though I had to find a way to placate you-know-who. It’s mostly considered a truce. My dwarfish uncle, Tyrion Lannister, is already on his way to King’s Landing from the Eyrie.”

“I’ve heard that he widow Arryn seems to be insane.”

Daveth shuddered. “She was always an odd fish even when Jon Arryn was still alive, yet…” he stopped and pondered.

“My Prince?” Bodrin asked curiously.

“Yet she didn’t show genuine remorse or grief when he did pass… and Lysa immediately took off to the Vale without attending her husband’s funeral…”

“You don’t think…?”

“All we have are theories at the moment. To find something incriminating, I need proof. Otherwise none of us can move a muscle without finding evidence of foul play.”

“With your permission, my lord, I know some people willing to look into it for you.”

Daveth looked at Bodrin for a moment. “Just get it done,” he sighed. “But be as discreet as possible. Remember, there are eyes and ears everywhere in King’s Landing.”

“It will be done,” Bodrin bowed. “Not even the eunuch or Littlefinger will track us down.”

As soon as the commoner left the Crown Prince’s chamber, Daveth had begun to walk towards the room where Eddard Stark was kept. He was being confined until King Robert and Queen Cersei arrived for questioning, yet Daveth still hoped to get some answers from him. Knocking on the door and making his way in, Daveth sees Eddard sitting on a chair looking up at him.

“Bed your pardon, my Prince,” Eddard said.

“It’s alright. No need for you to stand for me.” Daveth pulled up a chair and sat beside him. “I won’t lie to you, Lord Stark. Mother isn’t happy about this. Father isn’t happy about this. Both of them are already on their way here to question you themselves.”

Eddard looked at the Prince. “And then what?”

“Must you ask? You know father better than that. Once his temper cools down, he’ll come to his senses. You’re far too important to him to let go.”

“Threatening to have my head on a spike was one way of putting it."

Daveth shook his head. “That was just him blowing out hot air; father always needed someone to vent his frustrations on. I assure you he didn’t mean it.” He soon changed the subject and had a serious look on his face. “Now, I want you to tell me what in Seven hells happened back there. What happened between you and my uncle that ended with corpses littering the streets before I arrived?”

Eddard took a moment to take in what happened. Jory, his men… Once he explained his side of the story, Daveth analyzed his words.

“I see,” he concluded. “Uncle Jaime was always hot-headed, but he does care deeply about Uncle Tyrion.”

“He killed my men!” Eddard said.

“You think that excuses what your wife did? Lord Stark, you don’t simply just do that and not expect retaliation in return.”

“And what of the plot to kill my son Bran? The dagger the Imp got from Lord Baelish in a bet…”

“And you believe everything you hear?” Daveth scoffed. “I was at the tournament of my brother Joffrey’s last nameday, Lord Stark. No such bet ever took place.”

Eddard stopped talking and looked at Daveth, taking in what the Prince just told him.

“No. I believe both the Starks and Lannisters are being manipulated by a third party. Whoever did try to murder your son clearly intended to blame House Lannister for the deed. I already have my contacts working to find leads so as to determine who is responsible. Lord Stark, why didn’t you come to me?”

“You were just a boy, and you’re Robert’s son,” Eddard said. “Your father and the Queen would’ve had my head if I had gotten you involved.”

“Don’t you think I don’t know the risks entail? I’m already involved regardless. You love your children, I get that. All parents do. Well, I suppose some do. But you need to learn how to be more flexible and often compromise to achieve the results you want. Houses Baratheon and Stark always stood side-by-side, remember? And if we’re to be bound by blood, the least I could do is provide whatever aid I can possibly provide so as to ensure your sons and daughters have a future. Not many these days get that chance.”

Eddard looked at Daveth, examining the Prince closely before letting out a smile. “You really are your father’s son, aren’t you?”

“Ugh, please, Lord Stark, don’t even say such things!” Daveth shuddered.

On que, the door opens and in comes King Robert and Queen Cersei. Robert wore a black velvet doublet with the crowned stag of Baratheon worked upon the breast in golden thread, and a golden mantle with a cloak of black and gold squares. Cersei wore a blue dress and a jeweled tiara in her hair. Judging by the discontented look on their faces, it was bound to get heated. Daveth and Eddard both stood up.

“Your Grace,” Eddard bowed.

“Father. Mother,” Daveth politely curtsied.

Cersei eyed her firstborn up and down. “Are you alright, my son?” she asked, a hint of worry and scorn in her voice.

Daveth nodded. “I’m fine, mother.”

The Queen seemed to accept Daveth’s words, though that did little to placate her. Robert, meanwhile, did not care.

“You did well to bring this to our attention, boy,” Robert said bluntly. “But this doesn’t concern you anymore. Leave us. Now.”

Daveth looked at his father, slightly irritated before taking his leave. Not long after the door was closed, did things heat up.

“A man in your place should count himself fortunate that his head is still on his shoulders,” Cersei declared. “Do you have any notion of what the consequences entail for endangering the life of my son?”

“I hadn’t expected him to personally intervene,” Eddard said, “though that didn’t stop your brother from slaughtering my men.”

“Do you know what your wife has done? What you have done?”

“She did nothing I did not command."

Robert frowned and rolled his eyes. “Who’d have thought Cat had it in her?”

“My wife is blameless, Your Grace.”

“I am  _not pleased_ , Ned."

“Yes, the Crown Prince already told me that.”

“By what right do you dare to lay hands on my blood? To endanger the life of the Crown Prince?” Cersei demanded. “Who do you think you are?”

“I am the King’s Hand―” Eddard told her with icy courtesy.

“You  _were_  the King’s Hand―!”

“Charged by your royal husband to keep the king’s peace―”

“You shall now be held accountable―”

“And enforce the king’s justice―”

“Oh,  _will both of you shut your mouths_?!” Robert roared. “You asked him a question and he answered it.”

Cersei subsided, cold with anger, and Robert turned back to Eddard.

“Keep the king’s peace, you say. Is this how you keep my peace, Ned? Seven men are dead…”

“Eight,” Cersei corrected. “Tregar died this morning, of the blow Lord Stark gave him.”

“Daveth and the Old Bull told us everything. Abductions on the Kingsroad and drunken slaughter in my streets,” Robert said. “I will not have it, Ned.”

“As I told the Prince―”

“I said I will  _not_ have it! To hell with your wife’s 'reasons.’ We already got word that the dwarf was released after your little spat, so now you will make your peace with Jaime.”

“He butchered my men. Am I supposed to forget that Jaime wished to  _chasten_ me after what he did?”

“My brother was  _not_  the cause of this quarrel,” Cersei told Robert. “Lord Stark was returning drunk from a brothel. His men attacked Jaime and his guards, even as his wife attacked Tyrion on the Kingsroad.”

“Quiet, woman!” Robert shouted.

“You know me better than that, Robert,” Eddard said. “Ask your son or Lord Baelish if you doubt me. They were there.”

“I’ve talked to them already. He claims he rode off to bring the gold cloaks before the fighting began, but he admits you were returning from some whorehouse. Daveth told me that he, the Old Bull and several Watchmen went to stop your fight with Jaime.”

“He gave his side of the story,” Cersei replied, “and was released from his room on Daveth’s condition that he informs the King first.”

“Give me leave to bring him to justice,” Eddard requested.

“No,” Robert refused. “I want no more of this. Jaime killed three of your men, and you killed five of his. Daveth took it upon himself to end it. Now it’s your turn to end it.”

Cersei looked to her husband. “I took you for a King.”

Robert’s face was dark with anger. “Hold your tongue!”

“He’s attacked my brother and abducted the other,” Cersei’s face was a study in contempt. “Jaime and Tyrion are your own brothers, by all the laws of marriage and the bonds we share. This man dishonors you with every breath he takes, and yet you stand there meekly. Perhaps I should wear the armor and you wear the gown.”

***SLAP!***

Purple with rage, Robert lashed out and landed a vicious backhand blow to the side of the head. Cersei Lannister stumbled against the table and fell hard, yet she did not cry out. Her slender fingers brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face.

“I shall wear this as a badge of honor,” she hissed.

“Wear it in silence or I’ll honor you again."

Cersei stood to her feet and stormed out without a word, slamming the door shut behind her.

“See what she does to me?” Robert seated himself, cradling his wine cup as he takes a sip. “My loving wife. The mother of my children.” The rage was gone from him now; in his eyes Eddard saw something sad and scared. “I should not have hit her. That was not… That was not kingly.”

“Your Grace,” Eddard said, “your son told me what he planned. Averting a war…”

“And now that little shit of an Imp is on his way back to King’s Landing, I know,” Robert pressed his fingertips against his temples. “Your wife’s had her fun, now put an end to it before she decides to play it again. You hear me? Send a raven and put an end to it.”

“And what about Jaime Lannister? What about Jaime?”

“I’m half a kingdom in debt to his bloody father! I don’t know what happened between you and those yellow-haired shits. I don’t want to know. My son’s right about this though: I can’t rule the kingdoms if the Starks and the Lannisters are at each other’s throats, so enough!”

Eddard remained standing. “As you command, Your Grace. With your leave, I will return to Winterfell and set matters straight.”

“Piss on that! Send a raven. I want you to stay. I’m the King, I get what I want,” Robert said loudly before lowering his tone. “I never loved my brothers… A sad thing for a man to admit, but it’s true. You were the brother I chose.” Robert stood up, grasping one of the bedposts to steady himself and throws the Hand of the King’s badge onto the table where Eddard was standing next to. “We’ll talk when I return from the hunt.”

“The hunt?”

“Killing things clears my head. Daveth’ll be sitting on the throne while I’m away, and you’ll be helping him. You’ll hate it more than I do.”

“What about the Targaryen girl―”

Robert groaned. “Seven hells! Don’t start with her again! The girl will die and I’ll hear no more of it. Put on the badge. And if you ever take it off again, I swear to the Mother I’ll pin the damn thing on Jaime Lannister.”

Robert exits the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Eddard picks up the badge; he was being given no choice again, it seemed.

* * *

**At Vaes Dothrak…**

* * *

Inside a large communal tent, a pregnant Daenerys Targaryen is centered around everyone and eating the heart of a horse. The Dothraki and a priest chant around her. Her husband Khal Drogo looks on in anticipation as she continues eating.

“She has to eat a whole heart?” Viserys asks. “I hope that wasn’t my horse.”

“She’s doing it well,” Jorah replies.

“She’ll never keep it down.”

At lot had changed between Viserys and his sister Daenerys. Ever since the incident in the hills, the relationship between the two had grown increasingly sour.

**ooOoo**

> _“You dare send this whore to give me commands?! I should have sent you back her head!” Viserys shouted angrily at Daenerys, having dragged Doreah by her hair through the camp and into Daenerys’ tent before roughly shoving her to the carpet._
> 
> _Doreah’s face was bruised and her eye was red, indicating that Viserys had hit her repeatedly._
> 
> _“Please forgive me, khaleesi,” she cried. Tears fell down her cheeks as Doreah trembled in fear. “I only did as you asked.”_
> 
> _“Hush now. It’s all right,” Daenerys comforted her handmaiden. “Irri, take her and leave us.”_
> 
> _“Yes, Khaleesi,” Irri obeyed and took Doreah out of the tent, leaving Daenerys alone with Viserys._
> 
> _“Why did you hit her?!” Daenerys shouted._
> 
> _Viserys snarled. “How many times do I have to tell you? You do not command me!”_
> 
> _“I wasn’t commanding you. I just wanted to invite you to supper.” She took him by the hand and drew him across the room. “Look. These are for you,” Daenerys said as she presented Viserys the assembled gifts she made for him. Ever since their first spat she had tried to reconcile with her brother._
> 
> _Viserys frowned suspiciously. “What is all this?”_
> 
> _“It’s a gift. I had it made for you,” Daenerys smiled shyly._
> 
> _He looked at her and sneered. “Dothraki rags? Are you to dress me now?”_
> 
> _“Please,” she begged. Why was he always so cruel? She had only wanted to help._
> 
> _Viserys picked up the cloak and sniffed. “This stinks of manure,” he exclaims and began throwing the gifts at Daenerys._
> 
> _“Stop—”_
> 
> _He continued tossing them. “All of it!”_
> 
> _“Stop it!” Daenerys warned, finally out of patience and fed up with her brother._
> 
> _“You would turn me into one of them, wouldn’t you? Next you’ll want to braid my hair.”_
> 
> _“You’ve no right to a braid,” she exclaimed boldly. “You’ve won no victories yet.”_
> 
> _Viserys’s face turned purple with rage. “You do not talk back to me!”_
> 
> **_*SMACK!*_ **
> 
> _Viserys hit Daenerys across the face. As she falls to the ground, Viserys mounts her to keep hitting her as Daenerys fends him off with a chain._
> 
> _“You are a horselord’s slut!” he yelled. “And now, you’ve woken the dragon!”_
> 
> **_*BAM!*_ **
> 
> _Before Viserys could strike Daenerys, she quickly grabbed a heavy chain of ornate gold medallions on the ground and swung it with all her strength, hitting Viserys in the face as hard as she could. Viserys yelled and stumbled backwards, releasing his grip. Blood ran down his cheek where the edge of the medallions had sliced it open._
> 
> _Daenerys rose to her feet. “I am a khaleesi of the Dothraki!” she proudly proclaimed to Viserys. “I am the wife of the great khal and I carry his son inside me! The next time you raise a hand to me will be the last time you have hands!”_
> 
> **ooOoo**

Daenerys keeps eating the heart, nearing the end. The Dothraki onlookers all chant in unison, getting louder and louder. The priestess is also chanting, louder and louder. Khal Drogo stares more intently at his wife, she stares back. The chanting grows louder, as does the priestess.

"Rakh! Rakh! Rakh haj! (A boy! A boy! A strong boy!)"

"Khalakka dothrae! (The prince rides!)"

"Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres! (The stallion that mounts the world!)"

“Tell me what she is saying,” Viserys demanded.

“'The prince is riding’,” Jorah translates. “'I have heard the thunder of the hooves. Swift as the wind he rides. His enemies will cower before him… and their wives will weep tears of blood.’”

The eating and chanting intensifies as Viserys looks on in shock.

“She’s going to have a boy."

“He won’t be a real Targaryen,” Viserys dismissed. “He won’t be a true dragon.”

As the chanting is at its loudest, Daenerys has finished with the heart. Everyone looks on in anticipations, she wretches forward, on the verge of vomiting. The chanting suddenly halts. Khal Drogo leans in and looks intensively. Daenerys holds everything in and sobs. Her hands bloody, she slowly sits up, keeping everything in as she gulps the final bite. The priestess begins to speak, Jorah translates directly for Viserys.

“'The stallion who mounts the world.’ The stallion, is the khal of khals. He shall unite the people into a single khalasar. All the people of the world will be his herd.”

Daenerys rises to her feet, speaking before the Dothraki assembled in the room.

“Khalakka dothrae mr'anha. (A prince rides inside me)," she announces. "Ma me nem ahakee ma Rhaego! (And he shall be called Rhaego!)”

“Rhaego! Rhaego!” the room begins chanting.

As the chanting grows louder and louder, Drogo stands up and walks up to Daenerys.

“They love her,” Viserys realizes.

The room’s chanting gets even louder. Drogo hugs Daenerys as he hoists her up by her thighs, making Daenerys smile as she gets carried around the room.

“She is truly a queen today,” Jorah exclaimed.

Jorah looks to his right towards Viserys, who has now slipped out. Inside Daenerys’s tent, Viserys opens the container that holds her dragon eggs. He sighs and then puts them into a sack. Jorah walks into the tent behind him, blocking the door.

“Don’t let them see you carrying a sword in Vaes Dothraki,” he warns. “You know the law.”

Viserys shook his head. “It’s not my law,” he protested.

“They don’t belong to you.”

“Whatever is hers is also mine."

“Once, perhaps."

“If I sell one egg, I’ll have enough to buy a ship. Two eggs – a ship and an army.”

“And you have all three.”

Viserys frowned. “I need a large army,” he snarled. “I’m the last hope of a dynasty, Mormont. The greatest dynasty this world has ever seen, on my shoulders since I was five years old and no one has ever given me what they gave to her in that tent. Never. Not a piece of it… How can I carry what I need to carry without it? Hmm? Who can rule without wealth, or fear, or love? Oh, you stand there, all nobility and honor. You don’t think I see you looking at my little sister, hmm? Don’t think I know what you want? I don’t care! You can have her! She can be queen of the savages and dine on the finest bloody horseparts, and you can dine on whichever parts of her you like! But let me go!”

Jorah continued blocking the door. “You can go, but you can’t have the eggs.”

“You swore an oath to me. Does loyalty mean nothing to you?” Viserys challenged.

“It means everything to me.”

“And yet here you stand?”

“And here I stand.”

Viserys and Jorah stare at each other for a moment, before Viserys drops the sack containing the dragon eggs to the floor. Jorah steps aside, unblocking the exit and permitting Viserys to leave.


	15. The Seed is Strong

* * *

**At the Great Hall of the Red Keep…**

* * *

Daveth sat high upon the immense ancient Iron Throne forged by Aegon the Conqueror, an ironwork monstrosity of spikes and jagged edges and grotesquely twisted metal. It was, as Robert had warned him, a hellishly uncomfortable chair. The metal beneath him had grown harder by the hour, and the fanged steel behind made it impossible to lean back. Sitting next to him was Lord Petyr Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle and the re-instated Hand of the King Lord Eddard Stark. Grand Maester Pycelle stirred uneasily beside him, while Littlefinger toyed with a pen. Eddard Stark stood beside the Crown Prince, acting as Daveth’s principal advisor. King Robert heard that a white hart had been sighted in the Kingswood, so he invited Renly and Ser Barristan to join the king to hunt it. So Daveth sat the Iron Throne and was tasked with managing the court in his father’s stead while the King was away hunting.

The petitioners clustered near the tall doors, the knights and high lords and ladies beneath the tapestries, the smallfolk in the gallery, the mailed guards in their cloaks, gold or grey: all stood. The villagers were kneeling: men, women, and children, alike tattered and bloody, their faces drawn by their fear. Daveth had never seen so many people assembled before him in misery in nine years.

“All rise,” Daveth commanded, his voice echoed throughout the Great Hall.

In ones and twos, each villager rose to their feet. One elderly needed to be helped, a young girl in bloody rags stared blankly at Ser Lucius Blackmyre, who stood by the foot of the Iron Throne in full Kingsguard armor, ready to protect and defend Daveth or the King’s Hand Lord Stark if needed.

Eddard spoke up and introduced the petitioners. “This hearing concerns the accused of raiding numerous villages in the Riverlands. Joss will speak on behalf of the people wronged by this heinous act.”

Daveth nodded. “You may speak.”

Joss slowly approached, trembling as the old farmer held his hat close to his chest.

“They burned almost everything in the Riverlands, our fields, our granaries, our homes. They took our women and they took ‘em again,” he said as the court gasped in shock. “When they was done, they butchered them as if they was animals. They covered our children in pitch and lit them on fire.”

“I keep… I  _used to_ … I used to own an alehouse, m'lord, in Sherrer, by the stone bridge,” another petitioner spoke up. “The finest ale south of the Neck, everyone said so, begging your pardons, my Prince. It’s gone now like all the rest. They come and drank their fill and spilled the rest before they fired my roof, and they would have spilled my blood too, if they’d caught me. My Prince.”

“They rode down my 'prentice boy,” said a squat man with a smith’s muscles and a bandage around his head. He had put on his finest clothes to come to court, but his breeches were patched, his cloak travel-stained and dusty. “Chased him back and forth across the fields on their horses, poking at him with their lances like it was a game, them laughing and the boy stumbling and screaming till the big one pierced him clean through.”

The girl craned her head up at Daveth, high above her on the throne.

“They killed my mother too. And they… they…” Her voice trailed off, as if she had forgotten what she was about to say. She began to sob.

“At Wendish Town,” spoke Ser Raymun Darry, “the people sought shelter in their holdfast, but the walls were timbered. The raiders piled straw against the wood and burnt them all alive. When the Wendish folk opened their gates to flee the fire, they shot them down with arrows as they came running out, even women with suckling babes.”

Judging by the look of Ser Raymun’s armor, Daveth concluded he was a knight from the Riverlands in service of House Tully.

“Dreadful,” murmured Eddard. “How cruel can these men be?”

“You believe it was the work of brigands?”

“I’d believe so, my Prince,” Pycelle replied.

Joss shook his head. “They weren’t thieves, they didn’t steal nothing. They even left something behind, Your Grace.”

“It’s the Crown Prince you’re addressing, not the King. The King is hunting.”

Eddard Stark wondered how a man could live his whole life a few days ride from the Red Keep and still have no notion what his King could be doing at this very moment; contemplating on whether or not it was fair to place his responsibilities onto his heir. Stark was clad in a brown leather doublet with the Hand of the King’s badge on the breast; his black wool cloak was fastened at the collar by his hand of office. Daveth leaned closely, feeling cold steel against his fingers as he leaned forward. Between each finger was a blade, the points of twisted swords fanning out like talons from arms of the throne. Even after three centuries, some were still sharp enough to cut. The Iron Throne was full of traps for the unwary. The songs said it had taken a thousand blades to make it, heated white-hot in the furnace breath of Balerion the Black Dread. The hammering had taken 59 days. The end of it was this hunched black beast made of razor edges and barbs and ribbons of sharp metal; a chair that could kill a man, and had, if the stories could be believed.

What the Crown Prince was doing sitting there Eddard Stark couldn’t comprehend, yet there he watched the youth as he sat, noticing these people looked to him for justice.

“What did these men leave behind, kind ser?”

A second man walks forward and empties a sack of fish out onto the floor, with an odorous stench filling the room as most held their noses.

“Fish. The sigil of House Tully,” determined Petyr as he leaned to whisper to Eddard. “Isn’t that your wife’s House – Tully – my Lord Hand?”

“It is,” Eddard confirmed in a whisper.

Daveth chimed in, whispering. “If these men are not brigands, then who do you think did this?”

“Well, let’s find out,” Eddard whispered before turning his attention to Joss. “These men, were they flying a sigil?” he asked.

The old farmer looked confused. Daveth pointed to the cloth next to the Iron Throne.

“A banner,” he elaborated. “Now tell Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, what it is you saw that day. Were these men flying a banner or not?”

Joss shook his head as he turned to Eddard. “None, your… Hand,” he corrected himself. “The one who was leading them… Taller by a foot than any man I’ve ever met, saw him cut the blacksmith in two, saw him take the head off a horse with a single swing of his sword.”

_'Ser Gregor Clegane!’_  Daveth realized. He remembered unseating Gregor in the jousting competition during the Hand’s Tournament; after losing the match, Gregor angrily stormed off without saying a word.

“That sounds like someone we know. The Mountain,” Petyr whispered as if he knew exactly what was on Daveth’s mind.

Daveth and Eddard nodded.

“You’re describing Ser Gregor Clegane,” Eddard said.

“Can any man doubt it?” Ser Raymun spoke loudly. “This was the Mountain’s work!”

Eddard heard muttering from beneath the windows and the far end of the hall. Even in the galley, nervous whispers were exchanged. High lords and smallfolk alike knew what it could mean if Ser Raymun was proved right. Ser Gregor Clegane is one of Lord Tywin Lannister’s bannermen. He studied the frightened faces of the villagers. Small wonder they had been so fearful; they had thought they were being dragged here to name Lord Tywin a red-handed butcher before a King who was his son by marriage. He wondered if the knights had given them a choice.

Grand Maester Pycelle shifted in his seat, his chain of office clinking. “Why should Ser Gregor turn brigand? The man is an anointed knight.”

“Perhaps he’s still feeling sore about losing the joust to the Oathkeeper,” Petyr suggested.

“So he lost a joust, yet decides to take it out on these people?” Daveth suggested.

“I’ve often heard him called 'Tywin Lannister’s mad dog.’ Can you think of any reason the Mountain might be angry with you?”

“If he were to attack villages under the King’s protection, it would be—” Pycelle said before being interrupted.

“It would almost be as brazen as attacking the Hand of the King in the streets of the capital,” Petyr concluded.

Daveth stiffened before whispering to Eddard. “My Lord Hand. If these allegations were true, then it would no doubt cause more trouble with grandfather. I had to pull a lot of strings just to get the Riverlands and Westerlands to cease hostilities the last time. If the Mountain is indeed the culprit, House Tully would accuse House Lannister of violating the agreement.”

“I haven’t forgotten what you did, Daveth,” Eddard said. “Though I believe that the act only served to stall for time.”

If Ser Gregor had secretly been sent to burn and pillage—and Eddard did not doubt that he had—he’d taken care to see that he rode under cover of night, without banners, in the guise of a common brigand. Should Riverrun strike back, Cersei and her father would insist that it had been the Tullys who broke the king’s peace, not the Lannisters. The gods only knew what Robert would believe.

Daveth shook his head. “I’ll see what I can do to lessen the damage,” he sighed in resignation.

Eddard turned to the Riverlands smallfolk. “We cannot give you back your homes or restore your dead to life. But perhaps we can give you justice in the name of our King, Robert. Lord Beric Dondarrion!”

A slight young lord of Blackhaven with red-gold hair and wearing a black satin cloak decorated with stars, Beric Dondarrion hails from the Stormlands and enjoys the life of a knight; his noble House, the Dondarrions, is one of House Baratheon’s bannermen. He steps towards the Iron Throne from the back of the room.

“You shall have the command. Ser Karyl, Ser Raymun, Ser Marq, Thoros of Myr… you will help assemble 100 men and ride to Ser Gregor’s keep,” Eddard ordered.

Beric bowed. “As you command.”

Grand Maester Pycelle was on his feet again. “My lord Hand, if these good folk believe that Ser Gregor has forsaken his holy vows for plunder and rape, let them go to his liege lord and make their complaint. These crimes are no concern of the throne. Let them seek Lord Tywin’s justice.”

“It is all the king’s justice. North, south, east, or west, all we do we do is in Robert’s name.”

“The king’s justice,” Daveth said. “So it is, and so we should defer this matter until father—”

“Your father is hunting in the woods and may not return for days. Robert bid us to sit here in his place, to listen with his ears, and to speak with his voice. Though I agree that he must be told. Can you send word?”

“I will."

Daveth and Eddard soon stood up.

“In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,” Eddard announced. “I charge you to bring the king’s justice to the false knight Gregor Clegane and all those who shared in his crimes. I denounce him and attain him.”

Daveth, Petyr and Pycelle raised their eyebrows as Eddard continues to pass down the sentence.

“I strip him of all ranks and titles, of all lands and holdings, and sentence him to death.”

The Riverland petitioners seemed pleased with the sentence, confident that at long last they’d finally get the justice they’ve wanted. The four men stepped down from the throne and follow Eddard.

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Eddard arrives at his quarters, tired from arguing back and forth with Daveth on how to handle the matter with Ser Gregor Clegane. Daveth recommended a cautious approach, yet Eddard was determined to see justice was done.

**ooOoo**

> _“Have you not heeded my words more carefully, Lord Stark? The responsibility of everything that’s befallen to the people of the Riverlands lies solely on the Mountain, but if you continue to push your luck you’d eventually find yourself crossing swords with the lions of Casterly Rock,” Eddard remembered Daveth telling him. “Overextend yourself and you risk not only exposure but you’d ultimately drag the Seven Kingdoms into war!”_
> 
> **ooOoo**

Sansa and Arya had been less cheery as of late. Jory dead, their father was attacked… A lot has happened. Sansa knew Daveth had no part in murdering Jory and those poor other men; that had been his uncle, the Kingslayer. She knew her father was still angry about that, but was relieved when he told her he didn’t blame Daveth for intervening. That would be like blaming her for something that Arya had done. The Tower of the Hand seemed so empty after they left that Sansa was even pleased to see Arya when she went down to break her fast.

“Where is everyone?” Arya asked as she ripped the skin from a blood orange.

Sansa sighed. “They rode with Lord Beric, to behead Ser Gregor Clegane.” She turned to Septa Mordane, who was eating porridge with a wooden spoon. “Septa, will Lord Beric spike Ser Gregor’s head on his own gate or bring it back here for the king?”

She and Jeyne Poole had been arguing over that last night. The septa was horror-struck.

“A lady does not discuss such things over her porridge. Where are your courtesies, Sansa? I swear, of late you’ve been near as bad as your sister.”

“What did Gregor do?” Arya asked.

“He burned down a holdfast and murdered a lot of people, women and children too.”

Arya screwed up her face in a scowl. “Jaime Lannister murdered Jory and Heward and Wyl, and the Hound murdered Mycah. Somebody should have beheaded them.”

“The Hound is Joffrey’s sworn shield and Ser Jaime is Daveth’s uncle. It’s not the same.”

“It is  _technically the same_ ,” Arya said. Her hand clenched the blood orange so hard that red juice oozed between her fingers.

“Go ahead, call me all the names you want. You won’t dare when I’m married to Daveth. You’ll have to bow to me and call me Your Grace.”

***PLOP!***

She shrieked as Arya flung the orange across the table. It caught her in the middle of the forehead with a wet squish and plopped down into her lap.

“You have juice on your face, Your Grace,” Arya mocked.

It was running down her nose and stinging her eyes. Sansa wiped it away with a napkin. When she saw what the fruit in her lap had done to her beautiful ivory silk dress and almost ruining the victor’s crown, she shrieked again.

“You’re horrible!” Sansa screamed at her sister.

“Enough!” Eddard shouted sharply as he entered the room.

Sansa noticed her father approach and quickly cleaned herself up, wanting to be as presentable as possible. Arya, said nothing, but looked down in shame.

“Septa Mordane, I would like to talk to my daughters alone, please,” Eddard said. The septa bowed and left.

“Arya started it,” Sansa said quickly.

“ _Enough_ , Sansa.” Eddard’s voice was sharp with impatience.

Arya raised her eyes. “I’m sorry, father.”

“I didn’t come here to scold you. I’m afraid the city’s not getting much safer.”

“What?!” Sansa gasped.

“Listen—”

“What about Daveth?”

“Are you sending us away?”

“Please, father. Please don’t.”

“You can’t! I’ve got my lessons with Syrio. I’m finally getting good!”

“This isn’t a punishment. I’m not sending you away for fighting, though the gods know I’m sick of you two squabbling. Daveth’s already agreed to increase security in the capital, but still… three of my men were cut down like dogs not a league from where we sit, and what does Robert do? He goes  _hunting_.”

Arya was chewing her lip in that disgusting way she had. “Can I still take my lessons with Sryio?”

“Who cares about your stupid dancing master?” Sansa flared. “Father, I’m supposed to marry Prince Daveth. He named me his Queen of Love and Beauty,” she said pointing to the blue winter roses on her head. “I love him and I’m meant to be his queen and have his babies.”

“Still on about the 'proud, honorable Oathkeeper'…?” Arya rolled her eyes in annoyance.

“He’ll be the greatest king that ever was, a black lion, as brave as the wolf and as proud as the lion; and I’ll give him sons with beautiful black hair.”

“The stag is the sigil of House Baratheon, idiot. The lion’s a Lannister.”

“At least my betrothed’s nice to me! He’s so much better than his blonde-haired brother Joffrey.”

Eddard looked at his daughters strangely. “Blonde hair…?” he said quietly.

“Daveth’s a stag and a warrior, like his father. A bit of a mystery, but still―” Arya said before being interrupted.

“No! My sweet Prince is nothing like that old drunk king!” Sansa protested.

“Girls, go to your rooms. Now.”

“What?”

Arya grabs her sister’s arm. “Come on!”

“Wait! Father!”

The two exits the room and Eddard closes the door behind them. Slowly making his way over to his desk, Eddard opens the book that Daveth and Grand Maester Pycelle had given him earlier. The book covers the lineages of all the great Houses of Westeros. Eddard turns the pages and reviews House Baratheon’s lineage.

“'Lord Orys Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Axel Baratheon, black of hair'…” he reads out loud. Eddard turns to a more recent page regarding the Baratheon lineage and resumed his reading. “'Lyonel Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Steffon Baratheon, black of hair…’ 'Robert Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Daveth Baratheon, black of hair'… 'Joffrey Baratheon, golden-haired.’”

Eddard’s eyes went wide with the stunning revelation and closed the book. All members of House Baratheon had black hair, even Robert’s black-haired bastard son Gendry who earlier claimed that his mother was blonde. Daveth has black hair, yet Queen Cersei is blonde. Even the infant Barra had black hair, yet the prostitute Mhaegen is blonde.

_'The seed is strong! So THAT’S why Jon Arryn died!’_  Eddard thought, looking out the window. _'Daveth is Robert’s only trueborn son! The boys Joffrey and Tommen and the girl Myrcella have no legal claim to the throne. Someone murdered Jon Arryn so the truth wouldn’t get out! I’ve got to tell Robert. I’ve got to tell Daveth…’_


	16. Death of the King

* * *

**At King’s Landing…**

* * *

Eddard Stark is seen walking down a hallway with his guardsman Tomard. The two had been talking of Lord Stark’s findings regarding the parentage of Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen Baratheon. Eddard suggested they inform Daveth of the decision, but he was nowhere to be seen. A horn soon blared loud enough for them to hear.

“So Robert had returned from his hunt,” Eddard said.

Yet somehow… something was wrong. Eddard turned and saw Renly Baratheon running towards him, panting heavily and his green vest spattered in blood.

“Ned!” Renly shouted. “It’s Robert. We were hunting… a boar…” he tried to warn, motioning Eddard and Tomard to follow him.

Surprised yet being shocked as he is, Eddard rushes towards Robert’s chambers. Inside, he sees Cersei, Daveth, Joffrey, Myrcella, Tommen, Barristan Selmy and Grand Maester Pycelle are all present. The Baratheon children stood beside their father; Joffrey held Robert’s hand, his eyes watering at the sight. Myrcella and Tommen sniffled and sobbed. Daveth, on the other hand, stood in front of Robert; his face as stoic and unchanged, Daveth had to put on a strong aura. He had to be strong, not for himself – but for the sake of his younger siblings. Daveth knew his father was going to die.

“Shhh, shhh, shhh,” Daveth quietly hushed as Myrcella and Tommen turned to embrace their eldest brother to cry quietly. “Easy now,” he spoke calmly.

Joffrey looked as if he himself was going to cry, too.

“I should have spent more time with you two, shown you how to be a man,” Robert lamented weakly to Daveth and Joffrey, his face was pale as milk. “I was never meant to be a father.”

Daveth somehow knew this would eventually happen; his father had returned from the hunt, but was mortally wounded by a boar. Even in Robert’s condition, the smell of his wounds filling the room, Daveth swore he could smell a hint of potent wine.

_‘Drinking and hunting don’t mix, father…’_  he thought.  _'You shouldn’t have done such a foolish thing…’_

The king’s own steward opened the door; his face might have been carved of stone for so little did it show. “Lord Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King.”

“Bring him in,” Robert called, thick with agonizing pain.

Servants moved back and forth, feeding logs to the fire and boiling wine. Cersei Lannister sat on the edge of the bed beside her husband. Her hair was tousled, as if from sleep, but there was nothing sleepy in her eyes. They followed Ned as Tomard and Cayn helped him cross the room. He seemed to move very slowly, as if he were still dreaming. The King still wore his boots. Ned could see dried mud and blades of grass clinging to the leather where Robert’s feet stuck out beneath the blanket that covered him; a green doublet laid upon the floor, slashed open and discarded, the cloth crusted with red-brown stains. The room smelled of smoke and blood and death.

“Go on,” Robert told his children. “You don’t want to see this.”

Daveth held a crying Myrcella and Tommen; he placed his hand on Joffrey’s shoulder, making the young Baratheon look at his older brother.

“Come, Joffrey."

Joffrey was still visibly upset, but surprisingly did not resist and simply obeyed his brother – the four walking out of the room.

“My fault,” Robert said to Eddard weakly. “Too much wine, missed my thrust.”

Eddard walked over to Robert’s bedside and lifted the blanket. They had done what they could to close him up, but it was nowhere near enough. The boar must have been a fearsome thing. It had ripped the king from groin to nipple with its tusks. The wine-soaked bandages that Grand Maester Pycelle had applied were already black with blood, and the smell off the wound was hideous. Eddard’s stomach turned and let the blanket fall.

“It stinks. It stinks like death. Don’t think I can’t smell it. I paid the bastard back, Ned,” Robert chuckled before letting out a few coughs. His smile was as terrible as his wound, his teeth red with blood. “I drove my knife right through his brains. You ask them if I didn’t. Ask them!”

Renly, Cersei and Barristan didn’t find any of Robert’s boasting amusing at all. They didn’t say a word.

“I want the funeral feast to be the biggest the Kingdoms ever saw. And I want everyone to taste the boar that got me. Now leave us, the lot of you. I need to talk to Ned.”

“Robert, my sweet…” Cersei began.

“Out, all of you!” Robert insisted with a hint of his old fierceness.

On Robert’s demand, Cersei gathered up her skirts and her dignity and led the way to the door. Renly and the others followed. Grand Maester Pycelle lingered, his hands shaking as he offered the dying King a cup of thick white liquid.

“The milk of the poppy, Your Grace,” he said. “Drink. For your pain.”

Robert knocked the cup away with the back of his hand. “Away with you. I’ll sleep soon enough, old fool. Get out.”

Grand Maester Pycelle gave Ned a stricken look as he shuffled from the room and shuts the door.

“You damned fool,” Eddard said when they were alone, lowering himself to the bed beside his friend.

“Ah, fuck you, Ned,” Robert said hoarsely. His laugh turned into a grunt as a spasm of pain hit him. “Gods have mercy,” he muttered, swallowing his agony. He lifted his hand, the gesture pained and feeble. “Paper and ink there on the table, write down what I tell you.”

Eddard smoothed the paper out across his knee and took up the quill. “At your command, Your Grace.”

“'In the name of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of…’ you know how it goes. Fill in the damn titles. 'I hereby command Eddard of House Stark’ titles, titles. 'To serve as Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm upon my… upon my death. To rule in my… my stead, until my son Daveth’s eighteenth nameday…’”

“Robert…” Eddard spoke, but no words would come.

The agony was written too plainly across Robert’s face; he could not hurt him more. Eddard bent his head and wrote everything down, exactly as Robert commanded.

_'May the Gods forgive me,’_  he thought.

“Give it over,” Robert motions.

Eddard hands over the letter and quill to Robert, who takes it upon himself to sign it with his penmanship before handing it back to Eddard.

“Give it to the council after I’m dead,” he said through the pain. “At least they’ll say I did this right, this one thing. You’ll rule now, you and Daveth. You’ll hate it worse than I did, but you’ll do it well.”

“Robert,” Eddard said in a voice thick with grief, “you must not do this. Don’t die on me. The realm needs you.”

Robert took his hand, fingers squeezing hard. “You are… a terrible liar, Ned Stark. The realm… the realm knows… what a wretched King I’ve been. Bad as Aerys, the Gods spare me.”

“No,” he told his dying friend, “not so bad as Aerys, Your Grace. Not near so bad as Aerys.”

Robert managed a weak red smile as he winced in pain. “The girl… Daenerys. You were right. Varys, Littlefinger, my brother. Worthless… No one to tell me 'no’ but you and Daveth… Only you two. Let her live… Stop it… if it’s not too late.”

“I will,” Eddard replied.

“And my son… Daveth… There was… something I needed to tell him, but I… never could. There’s a… letter for him by the… the door. See that he gets it… He’ll need all the help he can get… Help him, Ned. Make him better than me…”

“I'll… I’ll do everything I can to honor your memory.”

“My memory,” he coughed in pain. “King Robert Baratheon… murdered by a pig…” he continued to cough up blood. The Stag King closed his eyes and seemed to relax. “Give me something for the pain… and let me die…”

The servants rushed back in and hurried to feed the fires. Grand Maester Pycelle hurriedly mixed him another draught of the milk of the poppy. This time the King drank deeply. His black beard was beaded with thick white droplets when he threw the cup aside.

“Will I dream?” Robert asked.

Eddard gave him his answer. “You will, my friend.”

“Good,” he said, smiling as his voice started to fade. “Take care of my children for me…”

The words twisted in Eddard’s belly like a knife. For a moment he was at a loss for words. He could not bring himself to lie. He couldn’t bring it upon himself to tell the dying Robert the truth regarding Joffrey, Myrcella or Tommen’s parentage. Then he remembered the bastards: little Barra at her mother’s breast, Gendry at his forge, and all the others.

“I… I will. I’ll guard your children as if they were my own,” he said slowly.

Robert slowly nodded and closed his eyes; for the last time. Eddard watched his old friend sag softly into the pillows as the milk of the poppy washed the pain from his face. Sleep took him. Heavy chains jangled softly as Grand Maester Pycelle and Renly re-enter Robert’s chamber as Eddard Stark leaves. Outside the door, Ser Barristan Selmy still guarded the tower stairs with Varys and Eddard.

“He was reeling from the wine,” Barristan said, seeming old beyond his years. “He commanded us to step aside, but… I failed him.”

Eddard shook his head. “No man could have protected him from himself.”

“I wonder, Ser Barristan,” asked Varys, so quietly, “who gave the King this wine?”

“His squire, from the King’s own skin,” Barristan answered.

“His squire?” Eddard asked. “The Lannister boy?”

Barristan nodded.

“Such a dutiful boy,” said Varys, “to make sure His Grace did not lack refreshment. I do hope the poor lad does not blame himself.”

“Who will tell Daveth?” Eddard asked.

“I’ll do it,” Barristan said. “It’s the least I can do for the boy.”

Eddard nodded and Barristan left the room to find Daveth, intending to pass on the news of his father Robert’s death. The Stark patriarch then takes a moment to speak with Varys.

“His Grace has had a change of heart concerning Daenerys Targaryen,” he said. “Whatever arrangements you made, unmake them. At once.”

Varys shook his head. “I’m afraid those birds have flown. The girl is likely dead.”

* * *

**In Daveth’s chambers…**

* * *

Daveth did everything he possibly could, but once Ser Barristan Selmy arrived to inform him that Robert was dead, little Myrcella and Tommen were crying loudly.

“It’s not fair!” wailed Myrcella. “Papa! Papa!”

“It can’t be true! Tell us it’s not true, big brother!” sobbed Tommen.

Daveth felt utterly helpless. He couldn’t think of anything that could settle his youngest brother and sister down. No matter how hard he tried, nothing seemed to work. The youngest of the Baratheon children continued to cry until their eyes were red and puffy and their cheeks were stained. Joffrey tried to hide it as well, but even he had tears streaming down his face.

“Mother…” Daveth spoke quietly. “Could you… take the children to their rooms? Try to calm them, if you can?” he asked.

Cersei nodded. “Come, children,” she called.

The three followed their mother to their own rooms, still upset. Now alone with Ser Barristan, Daveth looked out the nearest window and heard the bells ringing.

***DING!***

***DING!***

***DING!***

***DING!***

***DING!***

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Barristan spoke, laying a hand on Daveth’s shoulder. “I couldn’t protect your father.”

Daveth shook his head. “Do not blame yourself, Ser Barristan. No one could’ve saved my father from himself, not even me.”

“Tell me. Are you alright?”

“How do you think?”

Barristan noticed and didn’t press the issue. The quiet was soon broken when Eddard Stark entered the room.

“Lord Stark,” Daveth despondently acknowledged.

“Your Grace,” Eddard greeted.

“There’s no need to start calling me that yet. My coronation isn’t until a few days.”

“Even so. You’re the new King now.”

“I’m well aware of that, Lord Stark. Forgive me. I suppose some part of me expected something like this would eventually happen. Drinking and hunting don’t mix.”

“That they don’t.”

Silence filled the room again. Daveth noticed Eddard carrying a piece of paper in his hand.

“Is that…?” he asked.

Eddard nodded. “Your father asked that this be given to you. That and his signet ring. He wanted you to have it.”

Daveth took the signet ring and the letter, undoing the seal and began reading – recognizing his father’s poor handwriting. 

> “ _To my firstborn son and heir Daveth Baratheon,_
> 
> _By the time you receive this letter, then that means I’m probably dead. Perhaps you’d prefer to burn this damned thing unread. I wouldn’t blame you for that; I never was a really good father to you. Not that I was jealous of your growing power and influence, or your damned reputation  as 'the Oathkeeper’, but rather it was because it unnerved me to see that you had long surpassed me. A hard thing for a man to admit, but it’s true. When Jon Arryn told me  of your accomplishments, I had dreamed of giving up the crown and passing it down onto you. Take ship for the Free Cities with my horse and my hammer, spend my time warring and whoring, that’s what I was made for._
> 
> _Some part of me knew you were more than ready for the responsibilities I never even bothered with. What stopped me was that you were just  a boy, and yet you still surpassed me nonetheless. All at a very fast pace. Jon Arryn told you that one day you will be King, but it’d be best or you to not let poisonous whispers sneak its way into your ear; whether it’s from your blasted mother, Littlefinger, or anyone else._
> 
> _Remember, you might be half-Lannister but you are a Baratheon. You know our words. 'Ours is the Fury.’ You’ve been good at keeping your emotions in check, more than I would've done, but don’t hesitate to release your fury on  your enemies. Show them how us Baratheons deal with our enemies._
> 
> _I’m proud of you, son. My only regret was that I couldn’t tell you  before taking my last breath._
> 
> _Signed,_  
>  _Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name  
>  King of the Andals and the First Men • Lord of the Seven Kingdoms • Protector of the Realm”_

As he finished reading the letter again and again, Daveth felt his hands start to shake and his stoic face starting to display emotions, disbelief turning into uncertainty. He had never expected this from his father of all people.

***BAM!***

As he crumpled the paper in his hand, Daveth shouted and punched the nearest wall as hard as he could. Eddard Stark and Ser Barristan were taken aback by this sudden outburst and rushed to check on Daveth. The youth’s fist shook upon impact, bringing it down to reveal his bloodied knuckles.

“Damn you, father…” Daveth lamented. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Your Grace…” Barristan approached Daveth.

He shook his head. “I… Give me some time. I need to focus on making the necessary arrangements for my father’s funeral… and see to my other duties, if I can keep my mind on them at all. You two go on ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Understanding Daveth’s feelings, both Eddard and Barristan nodded and bowed as they left the room. Eddard looked back, believing that time should be allowed to pass and wounds to heal before the Regent could break the news to the new King.

_'I may have failed to protect my friend… but I will not fail to protect his son,'_ Eddard thought.  _'I promise you, Robert. I’ll watch over Daveth from now on.’_

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

On his way to his chambers, Eddard Stark walks with his guards. He notices Renly Baratheon had been leaning against the closest pillar, apparently waiting for him.

“Lord Stark,” he called out, “a moment. Alone if you will.”

Eddard motioned for his guards to leave. Once they comply, Renly looked at the newly appointed Regent.

“He named you Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, didn’t he?” he didn’t wait for a reply. “Cersei won’t care. Give me an hour and I can put 100 swords at your command.”

“And what should I do with 100 swords?”

“Strike! Tonight while the castle sleeps. We must get Daveth and Joffrey away from their mother and into our custody. Protector of the Realm or no, he who holds the King holds the kingdom. We should seize Myrcella and Tommen as well. Once we have her children, Cersei wouldn’t dare oppose us. The Small Council will confirm you as Lord Protector and make Daveth your ward.”

Eddard narrowed his eyes coldly at Renly, not approving of this proposal. “Lord Renly, Daveth is your nephew by blood. The only one sired by Robert and the Queen; he is your brother’s lawful heir.”

Renly took a step back, taut as a bowstring. “Every moment you delay gives Cersei another moment to prepare. By the time Robert dies, it will be too late for the both of us. The Lannisters are not merciful as the Gods are sometimes.”

“And if not Daveth, what about Stannis?”

“Saving the Seven Kingdoms from Cersei and delivering them to Daveth and Stannis? You have odd notions of protecting the realm.”

“As I said, Renly, Daveth is your nephew by blood and Stannis is your older brother.”

“This isn’t about the bloody line of succession!” Renly protested. “That didn’t matter when you rebelled against the Mad King. It shouldn’t matter now. What’s best for the Kingdoms? What’s best for the people we rule? We all know what Daveth is. Yes, he commands respect but he’s half-Lannister himself. Once he assumes control he’ll fill his offices with men who don’t have the realm’s best interests at heart. He’ll pretty much do whatever the Lannisters tell him. And Stannis? He inspires no love or loyalty. They’re not kingly material. I am.”

This bold (or yet brazenly stupid) act of proclamation shocked Eddard. “You want me to spill blood in these halls? Have you lost your mind, Lord Renly?”

Renly’s bravado appeared to fade. “What?”

“Daveth is a skilled administrator and a prodigy. He’s been groomed to inherit the throne from birth. And Stannis is a commander who led men into war twice. He destroyed the Greyjoy fleet.”

“Yes, they’re both good at what they do. Daveth knows how to govern and get results at a very fast rate, everyone knows that. Stannis is a good soldier, everyone knows that. So was Robert. Tell me something: Do you still believe good soldiers make good kings? Do you believe shady people making shady deals make good kings?”

“I  _will not_  dishonor Robert’s memory by shedding blood in these halls and drag frightened children from their beds,” Eddard refused to budge. “And I will NOT dishonor the wishes of Robert’s only trueborn son.”

Eddard walks off to his chamber, while Renly is left behind agitated.

_'Such a shame, Lord Stark,’_  he thought.  _'So be it…’_


	17. Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name

* * *

**At the Small Council chamber…**

* * *

Daveth felt out of place. He’d been presiding over Small Council meetings in his late father’s place for years, and now… Now the Oathkeeper finds himself sitting at the head of the table. Looking at the chair with the Baratheon sigil embroidered onto the leather, Daveth inhales sharply and examines his right hand. His knuckles had been wrapped in bandages and were still sore from losing control of himself, punching the wall after reading Robert’s letter. He still didn’t understand. Why couldn’t Robert have told his son in person? Why hide behind a letter? Why wait until he died to tell Daveth the truth? So many questions, and sadly they’ll go unanswered.

“Your Grace,” the royal steward spoke up, breaking Daveth’s concentration. “Lord Stark and the other councilors are here to see you. The Queen will be attending as well, along with your brother Prince Joffrey.”

Daveth remained still. “I see,” he said. “Anything else?”

He didn’t feel like talking much lately; Daveth attended his father’s funeral in the Great Sept of Baelor with his family to say their last goodbyes before sending Robert’s body back to Storm’s End to be buried as per his final request. The coronation would take place once the Small Council meeting was over; ravens were sent across the Seven Kingdoms bearing the news, and all the noble lords and ladies will assemble at the capital to swear fealty to the new King.

“Preparations have been made for your coronation. We’ll begin once you’re ready.”

“Very well. You are dismissed.”

The steward bowed and opened the doors, allowing Lord Eddard Stark, Queen Cersei Lannister, Varys, Petyr Baelish, Prince Joffrey Baratheon, Grand Maester Pycelle and Ser Barristan Selmy inside. The decision to include Barristan in the Small Council meetings surprised many, including Cersei and Barristan himself. When Cersei asked Daveth why, he simply remarked that as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Barristan did have a seat on the council. When it was Barristan’s turn to ask, Daveth replied that he promised to bring many changes to court but needed people he could trust to help him. Barristan didn’t enjoy politics, but promised to do whatever he could for his former squire. Cersei walked forward and sat next to Daveth’s right, while Eddard was seated to his left.

“My son,” Cersei said.

“Mother,” Daveth greeted.

“Your Grace,” Eddard greeted.

“Lord Stark.”

As soon as the others took their seat, Daveth noticed something was out of place… or rather someone, was missing.

“The Master of Laws is not present. Where is Renly?”

Varys placed his powdered hands inside his cloak and gave him a sorrowful look. “I fear Lord Renly has left the city. He rode through the old gate an hour before dawn with Ser Loras Tyrell and some 50 retainers. Last seen galloping south bound for Storm’s End or Highgarden in some haste.”

 _‘What are you up to, Uncle Renly…?’_  Daveth thought.

Cersei waved Varys off and spoke firmly. “Does it matter where Renly went? Or his reasons? We are here now, so it’s best we get on with it.”

Daveth sighed and seated himself. “This meeting of the Small Council is now called to order. What do we have for the day?”

“The city mourns the loss of the late King Robert. Preparations have been made for your coronation, Your Grace,” Petyr begun. “I’ve already had several Watchmen stationed at key posts to ensure the king’s peace is kept.”

“'The king’s peace’ didn’t even save father,” Joffrey muttered loudly. “You let them kill our father, Daveth. Your 'wise councilors’ can’t protect anybody.”

Daveth quickly turned to Joffrey. “Watch your tone, Illborn.”

Joffrey immediately sneered at his brother. Cersei motioned for her two sons to settle down.

“There is something else,” Eddard spoke, drawing out Robert’s last letter. “Your father had me record his last words. Ser Barristan and Grand Maester Pycelle stood witness as Robert sealed the letter, to be opened by the council after his death.” He turned to Barristan and handed him the paper. “Ser Barristan, I believe no man here could ever question your honor. If you would be so kind?”

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard examined the paper. Daveth, Cersei and Joffrey all eyed the paper.

“King Robert’s seal,” Barristan said. “Unbroken.”

“What does it say?” Cersei asked.

Barristan opened the letter and read. “'Lord Eddard Stark is herein named Protector of the Realm, to rule as Regent alongside Robert’s eldest son and heir Daveth Baratheon until his eighteenth nameday.’”

 _'And as it happens, he will come of age within a month,’_  Eddard thought, but he did not give voice to the thought.  _'Then I will have to step down from the regency…’_

He trusted neither Pycelle nor Varys, and Ser Barristan was honor-bound to protect and defend the young man he considered his new King. The old knight would not abandon Daveth easily. Over the past few months, Daveth told Eddard to tread carefully in King’s Landing, keep his counsel and play the game until he could adapt to his new surroundings.

Cersei’s face twisted slightly. “May I see that letter, Ser Barristan?”

Barristan hands her the letter; she reads it and looks at Eddard.

“'Protector of the Realm’,” she mocked. “Is this meant to be your shield, Lord Stark? A piece of paper?”

She places her fingers on each side of the will, ready to shred it before being stopped.

“I’d like to see it."

Cersei’s movement ceased as she looked at Daveth; her eldest son looking straight at her, speculating his mother had no intention of honoring Robert’s will.

“Daveth—”

“I said,  _I’d like to see it_ ,” he repeated more sternly.

Cersei curled her lips into a scowl, worried what this might mean for her. As all eyes were staring at her, Cersei reluctantly handed Daveth the paper.

As Daveth read the paper, he looked at Eddard. “This was father’s final request, Lord Stark?”

Eddard nodded. “It was, Your Grace. He had me write down his command before he died.”

Daveth looked at the rest of the Small Council, watching their faces, wondering what thoughts hid behind Pycelle’s half-closed eyes, Littlefinger’s lazy half-smile, and the nervous flutter of Varys’s fingers. Daveth set the paper down and stood up from his seat.

“And so shall it be,” he begun, standing firm and spoke with authority. “Let it be known to this council that the final proclamation issued by my father, the late King Robert, is to hereby be acknowledged and—”

Cersei’s and Joffrey’s eyes went wide, Pycelle and Petyr Baelish were surprised.

“Brother!” Joffrey shouted.

“Daveth!” Cersei exclaimed.

Daveth immediately raised his hand up, silencing them. “In accordance to his will,” he continued. “I hereby appoint Eddard of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King, to serve as Regent and Protector of the Realm until my eighteenth nameday. I ask this council to confirm Lord Stark as Lord Protector, that he may help me rule wisely and with justice.”

There were some muttering, whispers and complaints, but in the end it came down to a final decision. The Small Council unanimously approved of Eddard’s appointment as Regent and Protector of the Realm, while Cersei and Joffrey themselves were excluded since they have no position on the Small Council. Daveth noticed the look on their faces, how greatly displeased they were, but brushed them off regardless. He didn’t care what they had to say to him at this point. Whilst the other councilors congratulated Eddard on his appointment, the Stark patriarch turned to Daveth and told him he made the right decision. Once the meeting was concluded, the coronation was to get underway.

* * *

**At the Great Hall of the Red Keep…**

* * *

Sansa, Arya, Septa Mordane and Jeyne Poole both stood along the gallery with the other ladies of the court. She was ecstatic for witnessing Daveth’s coronation, but felt rather sad once she heard of Robert’s death. Sansa remembered the night before…

**ooOoo**

> _“My sweet Prince,” Sansa spoke softly, her voice as gentle and sweet as a dove. “I heard what happened. Your father, the King… I… I am so sorry.”_
> 
> _Daveth sat on the edge of his bed, not moving a muscle after Grand Maester Pycelle previously took it upon himself to tend the Oathkeeper’s bruised and bloodied hand. He just sat motionless and stared straight out of the window, watching the sun set._
> 
> _Can I… can I help you with anything?”_
> 
> _Daveth inhaled and exhaled through his nostrils. “No,” he said finally. “You can’t.”_
> 
> _“I don’t know what to say."_
> 
> _“How can you? Does it surprise you that my father, the great King Robert Baratheon, died on a hunting accident because he was too drunk?”_
> 
> _Sansa felt helpless and confused, she wanted to help but didn’t know how. From the way Daveth was speaking to her, it’s almost as if he could snap at any moment. Sansa heard him exhale again, more quietly this time._
> 
> _“Forgive me. That was uncalled for,” he apologized. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… the funeral ceremony ended two weeks ago. Your father was named Regent and Protector of the Realm, to serve until my eighteenth nameday – which is around the corner.”_
> 
> _Sansa approached closer, Daveth turned and noticed her pale pastel pink dress, with a flowery ribbon tied in the front and a gilded belt around her waist. Her long auburn hair was brushed until it shone, smooth as silk and was let down. Eyeing her up and down, Daveth speculated it represented personal vulnerability. Sansa placed a delicate hand on Daveth’s shoulder; he reached and placed his hand on Sansa’s, which still remained on his shoulder._
> 
> _“If it’s not too much to ask, would you… stay with me? At least until the sun goes down?”_
> 
> _Sansa felt her heart ache. She knew her betrothed was in pain and in need of any form of comfort. Since they are to be married soon, Sansa was determined to stand by him._
> 
> _“Of course, my sweet Prince,” she obliged, planting a kiss on Daveth’s cheek. “I’m here for you. Whenever you need me.”_

**ooOoo**

Sansa looked as Daveth made his way to the Iron Throne. He was wearing a black doublet with golden linen and crimson red sleeves, black pants and charcoal-grey boots. Wrapped around him was a red satin cape. Accompany him down the aisle to his right was Sansa’s father, Lord Regent Eddard Stark, and to his left was Queen Cersei Lannister – still frowning over the Stark’s recent appointment and her son’s apparent defiance. An old man stood in front of them, wearing a long purple robe and light brown sash around his shoulders embroidered with the seven-pointed star on each side. He was seen holding a golden crown crusted with rubies and black diamonds in both his hands. Sansa deduces that the man was the High Septon, head of the dominant religion of the Seven Kingdoms: the Faith of the Seven. The High Septon held a position of supreme authority within the church and unofficially carries a high degree of social influence.

Arriving at the steps, Eddard and Cersei turned in their respective directions as Daveth stood before the Iron Throne, kneeling before the High Septon with his head leaning downwards. Standing over Daveth, the High Septon held the crown up high. Arrayed in a cresent around the base of the Iron Throne stood all of the assembled knights of the Kingsguard in full armor, enameled golden steel from helm to heel, long pale cloaks over their shoulders: Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Lucius Blackmyre, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Boros Blount, and Ser Preston Greenfield.

“My lords and ladies of the court,” the High Septon began speaking. “We arrive to witness the ascension of a new King. May the Warrior grant him courage, and protect him in these perilous times. May the Smith grant him strength, that he might bear this heavy burden. And may the Crone, She that knows the fate of all men, show him the path he must walk, and guide him through the dark places that lie ahead.”

Sansa fidgeted her fingers, watching as the coronation takes place. Arya looked bored, with Septa Mordane occasionally pinching the Stark girl to stay awake. Eddard and Cersei watched Daveth being crowned.

 _'Are you watching this wherever you are, Robert?’_  Eddard thought.  _'I promise I’ll look after your son.’_

Cersei remained silent, looking at her eldest son.

“In the light of the Seven, I now proclaim Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms.”

With that, the High Septon gently bestows the golden crown upon Daveth’s head; the new King stands and turns to face the assembled courtiers.

“Long may he reign,” the High Septon declared.

“Long may he reign,” everyone in the Great Hall repeated.

***APPLAUSE!***

Everyone assembled cheered and applauded loudly as Daveth waved to the lords and ladies, none perhaps applauding as loudly as Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen, smiling as their eldest brother was crowned King. Sansa chimed in as well, proud of her Prince—no, her King now!—as Daveth sat down upon the Iron Throne. Sansa fluttered nervously as if she felt she had butterflies in her stomach.

 _“Someday your husband will sit there and you will sit by his side,”_  Sansa remembered Mordane’s words. She smiled warmly as the cheers continued to get louder.

* * *

**10 days later…**

* * *

Eddard Stark, Lord Regent and Protector of the Realm, stood beside King Daveth as Pycelle drew a parchment from his sleeve, unrolled it, and began to read a long list of appointments being announced.

“Hmm,” Pycelle looked over the paper. “It is His Grace’s will that the lands of Sherrer, Mummer’s Ford, Fairmarket and Maidenpool, along with the surrounding areas in the Riverlands affected by the actions of Ser Gregor Clegane, be placed under the Crown’s protection. Those who were left homeless in the fighting are to have their homes restored. So the Lord Regent has decreed, and the King consents.”

Daveth placed his fist against his chin as he sat on the Iron Throne, with Eddard Stark standing beside him as they listened to Pycelle read off the lists.

“In recognition for helping to foil a conspiracy plot against House Marbrand, it is also the wish of His Grace, that the common girl Reina, be at once raised to the rank of Lady and granted the seat of Summerhall, with all its tethered lands and incomes to be held by her sons and grandsons after her until the end of time. So the King has decreed, and the Lord Regent consents.”

Sansa had begun spending more time at court since the coronation, often at times hearing soft murmuring from the lords around her and whisperings pouring throughout the city into her room. She caught glimpse of Reina as the young, uneducated yet skilled commoner made her entrance. The muttering was louder and angrier amongst the lords, though the ladies whispered shocking surprises and bold admiration. Two little boys who must have been her brothers went before her. For her sigil Reina had taken a white basilisk on an orange field.

Within the first ten days of his coronation, King Daveth I Baratheon had already sent a wave of ripple effects throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Determined to bring the realm towards its direction, the Oathkeeper first looked inward and enacted reforms within the court. With his father gone and forbidding his mother from interfering in his affairs, Daveth led negotiations and compromises with the various noble Houses of Westeros; yet he still felt that dividing power between him and the Lord Regent would only lead to unnecessary trouble within the Seven Kingdoms. He would bide his time for now, and once he turned eighteen Daveth would further consolidate his power. Until then, every proposal he made had to be presented to Eddard for review; whether they were accepted or refused or modified depended on what was put on the table.

People near and far watched with interest as the first King of the post-Robert Baratheon age unfolded before their very eyes. Yet only a select few could detect a faint distinct gleam in Daveth’s eyes, like that of a lion, sharpening its teeth and claws, ready to strike. As now-Lady Reina departed to take her place at Summerhall, Grand Maester Pycelle resumed.

“Lastly,” Pycelle concluded, “in these times of peace and to ensure the proper transition, it is the view of the Small Council that the life and safety of King Daveth the Oathkeeper be of paramount importance. So the Lord Regent has decreed, and the council consents.” He looked to the King and Lord Regent.

Daveth stood. “Ser Barristan Selmy.”

Ser Barristan had been standing at the foot of the Iron Throne, as still as any statue, but now he went to one knee and bowed his head.

“Your Grace, I am yours to command.”

“Rise, Ser Barristan.”

The old knight stood.

“You have served the realm lawfully and faithfully for many years,” Daveth spoke. “Every man, woman and child in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. In light of your service and your many years of dedication and loyalty to the Crown as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, it would please the Crown if you would accept this gift.”

Daveth snapped his fingers and two blacksmiths, one of them from Volantis, presented a decorated sword unlike many knights have ever seen before. As Barristan unsheathed the blade, it had a unique design much were familiar.

“Valyrian steel, a rare thing to find in the known world. Such materials like these are hard to come by these days. We’ve decided to name this blade 'Bastion’, signifying the ideal embodiment of what the wielder represents, upholds and defends. No one here is more worthy of this than you, Ser Barristan.”

The tall, white-haired knight seemed speechless as he stood there, scarcely breathing.

“Your Grace,” he said at last. “I fear I… I do not know what to say…”

“I was your squire for several years, Ser Barristan,” Daveth’s voice was steady, yet carried as sense of gratitude. “I’ve learned much of being a knight from you. It’s only fair that I give you something in return.”

Sansa watched as the knight looked up at his new King. She had never seen him like this before, yet here he was.

“Your Grace,” Barristan said. “I will not forget this.”

Eddard leaned in to whisper his opinion. “That was a nice thing you’ve done, Your Grace.”

“I did what I believed to be right, Lord Stark,” Daveth answered.

“Even so, it was well deserved,” he replied. The Lord Regent soon noticed Sansa within the assembly. “But the rest will wait for now. Go and take a moment to rest. You’ve been working yourself ragged every single day.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead.”

Eddard shook his head. “We both know you’ll need a clear head to lead a kingdom, Your Grace,” he said. "Don’t worry about things here, Daveth. I’ll take care of the rest for now.”

“Fine,” Daveth sighed wearily – not interested in anymore arguments. “But first sign of something important, I want to know. No exceptions.”

Daveth stood and stepped from the Iron Throne, accompanied by Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius as they make their way through the crowd. Sansa sees Daveth approaching.

“Your Grace,” Sansa curtsied.

“My lady,” Daveth acknowledged. “Will you walk with me?” he asked, courteously offering his arm as a hook.

Sansa smiled and held onto him closely.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

 

Daveth and Sansa had walked to the Red Keep’s Godswood overlooking the Blackwater Rush, taking in the sights and allowing them a moment’s respite. Sansa still had her arm warped around Daveth’s arm, the new King staring out into the distance as gulls cawed overhead, the waves crashing against the shore.

“Do you know when we might…?” Sansa asked.

“Patience, little dove,” King Daveth replied. “It’s best not to rush things a bit too quickly. Even the slightest tug could ruin an entire tapestry. It would be easy to tell you too much. However…” he said, allowing himself to end Sansa’s curiosity, “if it’ll satisfy your curiosity, preparations for the royal wedding will begin once my upcoming nameday arrives and once you've… you know, had your blood.”

Sansa had blushed bright red in embarrassment when she was reminded of that word again. In the “general Westerosi perspective,” girls may well be wed before their first flowerings, for political reasons, but it would be considered perverse to bed them. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked exciting when Sansa was younger, but now as she matures and learns more of court intrigue the more she blushed.

“I promise I’ll be a good wife,” Sansa spoke, her cheeks still flushed.

“I’m sure you will,” Daveth said.

“I hope I don’t prove a disappointment to you.”

“You haven’t yet, but the potential is there. For both sides,” he reminded her. “For years I’ve seen what my father did to mother when they were together. The lies, deception, abuse and infidelities…”

Sansa’s face changed when Daveth told her everything of what King Robert did when he was married to Queen Cersei. Especially how Daveth remembered every exact detail of what his father did during that time.

“I decided that day… I am not going to be like the man father was to mother; I will not. I’ll forge my own path; I will not be that kind of person to whoever I was promised to.”

Sansa felt bad after learning more of Daveth’s childhood involving Robert and Cersei’s unhappy marriage and placed her hand on Daveth’s. So that explains why her betrothed is so determined to be a different kind of man in his own right!

“You are not like him,” Sansa said after a moment of silence, her voice as soft as a breeze and just as tender.

Daveth looked at Sansa, looking down at her hand entangled with his own before returning to meet her gaze. He swore he saw an almost longing look in her blue eyes. The Oathkeeper didn’t understand what propelled him to do what he did, but he found himself brushing back Sansa’s hair, cupped her cheek and leaned in to press his lips against hers. Sansa’s eyes widened in surprise, but did not resist and kissed him back.

 _'Gods, I will cherish this moment with my beloved King,’_  Sansa thought, allowing herself to be swept away in this tender moment.

The two were unaware that a pair of eyes was glued to them.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

* * *

“Did you hear?” one of the smallfolk whispered.

Another nodded. “Yeah, I did.”

“So it’s true then.”

“War seems likely. What do we do?”

“I’ve got friends in the capital. We could have 'em relay our findings to the Oathkeeper.”

“Whatever you do, best do it fast. Before it’s too late.”


	18. Betrayal!

* * *

**YEAR 299 AC**

**On the shores of Dragonstone…**

* * *

Nightfall descends upon the ancient island fortress of Dragonstone, where a red comet is seen shooting across the open skies. Standing upon the eponymous island bearing the same name in Blackwater Bay, Dragonstone was once the ancestral seat of the exiled House Targaryen. Due its advanced Valyrian design, the castle of Dragonstone was extremely difficult to breach and a small garrison stationed there could easily holds its own against a vastly larger force.

On the beaches, an old maester, Cressen, was seen running towards the center of the area holding a lit torch. As he arrived at his destination, an assembly of soldiers cladded in dark armor bearing the sigil of House Baratheon enclosed in a fiery red heart stood alongside their lord watching the religious idols of the Faith of the Seven burn. In front is a beautiful voluptuous woman with fiery red hair and red eyes, wearing red robes and a red gold choker with a large ruby around her neck. She was a priestess, but not of Westerosi origins; for her when she began chanting her accent was of Asshai from the Free Cities of Essos. To her followers, she was known as the red priestess Melisandre.

"Lord of Light, come to us in our darkness," she prayed. "We offer you these false Gods. Take them and cast your light upon us. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," the assembled knights said in unison.

The religion being preached was known as the faith of R'hllor or alternatively known as the Lord of Light, a deity widely worshipped in several of the Free Cities of Essos described as a "fire god". The Lord of Light is almost unheard of in Westeros; it was completely foreign to all but those who practiced the faith. Cressen reaches the group and hands his torch to another man, winded from his run.

"After the long summer, darkness will fall heavy on the world. Stars will bleed," Melisandre continues.

Cressen turns to first person standing beside him, Ser Davos Seaworth. Originally a poor commoner, Davos was a crabber's son and an infamous smuggler, often piloting his black-sailed ship into harbors in the dead of night and navigated through treacherous shallows. Davos eventually came into House Baratheon's service during Robert's Rebellion by sailing a small boat past the Tyrell blockade surrounding Storm's End through Shipbreaker Bay and smuggled a shipment of onions, beef, pork and salted fish to Lord Robert Baratheon's younger brother Stannis and his men, who were starving under siege by Lord Mace Tyrell and the Redwynes. The food allowed Stannis's men to hold on until Lord Eddard Stark arrived to lift the siege. As a reward for this service, Stannis knighted Davos, giving him choice lands on Cape Wrath and allowing him to choose Seaworth as the name of his new house. However, also as a punishment for his years of criminal activity as a smuggler, Stannis personally "shortened" Davos's left hand, cutting off the first joint from each finger of his left hand. Despite this, Davos found Stannis's ruling fair and just, and kept the bones of his severed fingertips in a pouch around his neck as a lucky charm.

"We need to stop her!" Cressen beseeched to Davos.

Davos held his hand up. "Not now."

"...The cold breath of winter will freeze the seas," the red priestess continued, "and the dead shall rise in the North."

Cressen had enough and walked forward, interrupting Melisandre. "All you men were named in the light of the Seven!" he yelled. "Is this how you treat the Gods of your fathers? Are you so eager to spit on your ancestors?"

After a long silence, Melisandre approaches Cressen and caresses his face. "You smell of fear," she spoke softly, "fear and piss and old bones. Do you want to stop me? Stop me."

After a moment, Cressen begrudgingly stood aside.

"In the ancient books," she continued, "it's written that a warrior will draw a burning sword from the fire. And that sword shall be Lightbringer."

Melisandre walks over to the Lord of Dragonstone standing before her, Lord Stannis Baratheon. The middle of the three Baratheon brothers, Stannis is a seasoned warrior and an accomplished military commander who served on the Small Council as Master of Ships to his older brother the late King Robert I Baratheon before leaving the capital to return to his stronghold. A brooding, puritanical and humorless man, Stannis possessed a harsh but fair sense of justice. He believed the world should be just; that somehow the world should be just and the consequences of justice would be that the order would be carried out.

As a warrior, Stannis will always fight for what he believes in even if it meant being the first man on the battlefield and the last one to leave. Stannis gained the respect of his men during the rebellion when he held Storm's End with only 500 men whilst the castle was under siege from Targaryen loyalists by land and sea for almost a year. He and his men avoided starvation by eating the horses, cats, dogs and rats before Davos's arrival. He still remained slighted at being stripped of his right of inheritance to Storm's End by Robert when his older brother claimed the Iron Throne, knowing full well that their youngest brother Renly was only a boy at the time and never fought a day in his life. Regardless, insult or no, Stannis's sense of duty and loyalty compelled him to give up his rights to Storm's End.

"Stannis Baratheon, warrior of light, your sword awaits you," Melisandre points to the sword embedded in the flaming statue.

Stannis approaches one of the burning effigies as everyone else looks on. He pulls a sword out from the base and carries it high, to applause. When he sticks it in the sand, the crowd kneels.

"Lord, cast your light upon us!" the crowd proclaimed.

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," Melisandre prayed, looking to Stannis.

The Lord of Dragonstone stood before his troops, speaking up. "For the night is dark and full of terror."

Stannis then walks away, almost forgetting to bring his wife with him. The rest of the crowd gets up to leave moments later. Davos and Cressen stay behind a moment to talk.

"This woman will lead him into a conflict with the King," Cressen warns.

"Maybe," Davos suggests. "But what happens here is between Stannis and his nephew."

"You really think the Oathkeeper will accept what happened here?"

"I don't like it, either, but I serve Stannis."

"As do I, but loyal service means telling hard truths. He's surrounded by fools and fanatics, but he trusts you, Davos. And he's the King's uncle. If you tell them the truth…"

"He's already received a raven from King's Landing. No doubt the two will have much to say to each other once they meet."

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

 

More than a year had passed since the Oathkeeper, Daveth Baratheon, ascended the Iron Throne. Now that he is eighteen years of age, Lord Eddard Stark announced his abdication from the regency and officially transferred the title of Protector of the Realm to King Daveth. With Eddard no longer acting as Regent or Protector of the Realm and returned to his duties as Hand of the King, the Seven Kingdoms and all its nine administrative regions largely fell under the Young Stag's control as he moved to further solidify his powerbase.

During the first year of his reign, Daveth helped to eliminate the Iron Throne's financial debts to House Lannister and the Iron Bank of Braavos at a fast rate; calling in favors, negotiating new trade deals, cracking down on investors defrauding creditors and repaid millions of Gold Dragons owed to his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister and the Iron Bank itself. Keeping his word to his contacts living in the slums of Flea Bottom, Daveth had workers renovate and construct a sewage system to properly dispose of the city's wastes. King's Landing and its districts had never looked or smelt so clean. It was an incredibly exhausting task, but with the Iron Throne's debts paid, the royal coffers could start being filled again in preparation for the upcoming winter. "Winter is coming," is what Eddard would occasionally tell Daveth. According to reports from the various maesters scattered across Westeros and his contacts stationed at the Citadel, this 10-year long summer has been declared officially over – the longest summer in living memory. Daveth is seen walking through the halls of the Red Keep with some of his councilors.

"The raven arrived from the Citadel this morning, Your Grace," Grand Maester Pycelle spoke. "The conclave has met, considered reports from maesters all over the Seven Kingdoms, and declared this great summer done, at last. The longest summer in living memory."

Varys chimed in. "The peasants say a long summer means an even longer winter."

"A common superstition."

"As it stands, Your Grace, we have enough wheat for a five-year winter," Petyr said as he hands Daveth the latest report, shrugging indifferently. "If it lasts any longer than that, well…"

"Then we will lack the necessary crops needed to keep our people fed when dealing with a rather protracted winter," Daveth deduces, "and not enough peasants to sow the fields. We'd be facing a serious food shortage if that scenario actually does occur." He looks up from the paper and turns to the Hand of the King. "Lord Stark, were you able to send word to Winterfell before this came in?"

Eddard nodded. "I did, Your Grace. Maester Luwin has informed me of the bushels and grain stores would only suffice for the same number of years."

"Hmm. More reports like this are coming from seemingly everywhere…"

"Your Grace…?" Pycelle inquired.

"It's nothing, my lords. We'll have a moment to worry about that within the next few days. If we're lucky, my contacts should be able to secure the necessary provisions needed to endure the seasonal changes by then. For now, you're all dismissed."

As they bowed their heads, both Daveth and Eddard stood in front of the Iron Throne in the Great Hall.

"Hard to believe it's been more than a year already," Daveth remarked.

Eddard smiled. "Not many rulers tend to have the luxury of time on their side. But those who prove fortunate enough often find themselves becoming sentimental."

"Did you just take a jab at me, my Lord Hand?"

"No, Your Grace, I assure you it wasn't. You've been working from dawn 'til dusk dealing with the crown's debts. Sometimes I wonder how you managed to pull it off so quickly."

"It wasn't easy, but I have my ways. In any event, we should be getting ready to fill the treasury so the people won't starve or freeze. Here's to hoping that the negotiations come through in our favor."

Eddard raised an eyebrow. "What negotiations?"

Daveth took a moment to explain. "I've had my contacts meet with several trading merchants from the Free Cities of Lys and Myr. They've been asking for a decent bargain. Imposing, reducing or lifting tariffs, modernizing trade agreements... Provided that the merchant lords of Essos don't try to cheat us, the realm might get what it needs."

"Lys? Myr? Why not the Reach?"

"We've heard no word from Highgarden or any of the noble houses of the Reach. Not a raven has been sent, no simple rider with a message… I find it to be… rather odd as of late."

"Why wouldn't Highgarden send word? It doesn't make sense."

"None of this makes sense, Lord Stark. But whatever it is, I can guarantee you… this sudden silence is making me feel a bit uneasy. And I want to know why."

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Sansa had been in her room sewing with her friend Jeyne Poole, threading a needle through silk and leather as she hummed a melody. More than a year had already passed since she had arrived at King's Landing with her father and sister. During that time, she had already blossomed into a beautiful young woman with a more slender, womanly figure; growing up a bit more mature since coming to the capital, Sansa took a moment to learn more of court intrigue; while she did prove to be a bit of a slow learner—which irritated Daveth to no end—she learned, nonetheless. That alone was enough to satisfy Daveth before he left to either attend another Small Council meeting or settle minor trading disputes.

While she was humming, Sansa groaned as she felt an uncomfortable cramp in her belly. She'd been having these bouts randomly, looking back as to how it happened.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _When the sun rose and shone its light into her room, Sansa had been sleeping but felt increasingly uncomfortable. By the time she awoke from her dream, Sansa felt something wet and pulled off the sheets. Slowly lifting up her nightgown, Sansa looked down and saw blood staining her dress as well as the sides of her thighs. She whimpered at first, never having experienced anything like this before, but knew what it meant: she's flowered. In her haste, she picked up a wet cloth and repeatedly scrubbed the mattress, trying to get it cleaned up._
> 
> _"Hey, hey, hey. What are you doing?" Eddard spoke as he entered his daughter's room, taking Sansa's hand before finally noticing what she was trying to clean._
> 
> _"Father, if the Queen Mother sees this… I can have Daveth's children now," Sansa explained._
> 
> _Eddard sent for some handmaidens to clean up the mattress, but what he failed to notice that among them was one of Cersei's maids, Bernadette, who immediately rushed to the Red Keep to inform the Queen Mother. Despite his best attempts to stop her, Eddard was stopped by Sandor Clegane, and both Cersei and Daveth are informed._ _By that time, Sansa was already sitting next to Cersei Lannister._
> 
> __
> 
> _"Your mother might have prepared you," Cersei explained. "You flowered, my dear. No more."_
> 
> _"My mother told me, but I… thought it would be different," Sansa confessed._
> 
> _"In what way?"_
> 
> _"I thought it would be less… less messy."_
> 
> _"Wait until you've birthed a child," Cersei stated. "You're a woman now. Do you have any idea what that means?"_
> 
> _"I'm fit to bear children for the King?" asked Sansa._
> 
> _Cersei gave a wry smile._ _"A prospect that delighted you, I can see. I will not fault you for that. The idea of bringing little princes and princesses into the world, it is the greatest honor for a queen," she said as she began reminiscing the first time she gave birth. "Daveth was the most difficult. He almost killed me. Even his birth... I labored for nearly two days trying to bring him into this world. You cannot imagine the pain. I screamed so loudly, I was sure Robert would hear me in the Kingswood."_
> 
> _"His Grace was not with you?"_
> 
> _"Robert?" she scoffed bitterly. "Robert was out hunting. That was his custom. Whenever my time was near, my royal husband would flee to the trees with his huntsmen and his hounds. And when he returned, he would present me with some pelts or a stag's head, and I would present him with a baby. Not that I wanted him there, mind you. I had Grand Maester Pycelle, an army of midwives, and I had my brother. When they told Jaime he wasn't allowed in the birthing room, he smiled and asked which one of them proposed to keep him out."_ _Cersei stopped for a moment, looking out of the window before returning her gaze to Sansa._ _"Daveth will show you an even greater devotion than Robert did with me. You could thank him for striving to be a different kind of man than his father; no doubt he's already told you the stories. Robert shamed and humiliated me, but Daveth will do no such thing to you. He's seen what I had to endure. You love the King, I can see that, but you remember to love his children."_
> 
> _"I love His Grace with all my heart," Sansa professed._
> 
> _Cersei sighed, knowing full well that the feelings were genuine. "That's so very touching to hear," she said as she shifted in her seat. "Permit me to share some womanly wisdom with you on this very special day. The more people you love, the weaker you are. You'll do things for them that you know you shouldn't do. You'll act the fool to keep them safe. Love no one but your children. On that front, a mother has no choice."_
> 
> _"There's always a choice, Your Grace. I can choose to love Daveth, and our children as well."_
> 
> _A half-smile flickered across the Queen Mother's face. It would appear that the gentle Sansa has developed a spine._
> 
> " _I see a bit of Daveth's influence has rubbed off on you," she suggested. "Very well, little dove. I won't deny you that, but in the end love is poison. A sweet poison, yes, but it will kill you all the same. Or… it would kill my son."_
> 
> **ooOoo**

The conversation with the Queen Mother unsettled her, but at least Sansa got some insight as to what to expect. She was also informed that since she's flowered, the plans for the royal wedding would now officially begin; something which allowed her to smile when Princess Myrcella exclaimed with glee that she was excited she was going to have a sister. Joffrey was being himself as always, occasionally hurling rude comments which always ended with Daveth shouting and asserting his dominance in case the lesser Baratheon didn't get the message. Sansa resumed her stitching as she began putting on the finishing touches on the new outfit. She held it up and examined closely.

"I hope Daveth likes it," she sighed. Sansa put a great deal of effort into making this new outfit for him.

"You're worrying too much, Sansa," Jeyne reassured her. "The King will like whatever you offer him."

"Maybe. Still, I can't help but feel a bit anxious. Ever since the royal wedding was announced, it's all I could even think about."

"So… When's the big day?"

"I don't know. It's mostly being done in secret. My betrothed told me he'll send word once it's done."

The two girls laughed as they continued to share secrets, talk about the upcoming wedding all while munching on some freshly baked lemon cakes. But little did she know, trouble was soon brewing and was about to complicate things…

* * *

**In Daveth's chamber…**

* * *

A series of footsteps were heard running through the hallway as Daveth spent his time reviewing documents from the Westerlands, Riverlands and Free Cities merchants. He'd been awake for quite some time and couldn't concentrate due to the distraction coming from outside, the noise getting louder and nearer. Finally, without warning, the door sprang open.

"Your Grace!" Bodrin shouted.

Daveth turned his head at the door, frustrated with the sudden and rude interruption.

"What is it now?" he demanded, slightly irritated.

Bodrin took a moment to compose himself. "We've just received word from both the Stormlands and the Reach… and…"

"What about them?"

"It's your uncle, Lord Renly…"

Daveth slowly stood to his feet, theorizing what it was that his contact was telling him.

"Renly Baratheon has called his banners and taken up arms against you, Your Grace… He's declared himself King, and the Reach has joined forces with him."


	19. Stags of House Baratheon

* * *

**At Dragonstone…**

* * *

 

King Daveth I Baratheon donned his black armor and gold cloak, dismounting his stallion on the steps of Dragonstone with two of his Kingsguard knights: Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Boros Blount. He had sent a raven to Dragonstone and received a reply. His uncle, Lord Stannis Baratheon, agreed to meet with him outside the gates.

"Are you sure this is wise, Your Grace?" Ser Boros asked. "We've already received reports about suspicious activities taking place here. Some of them are… unsettling."

Daveth did not look at him. "I've heard the same, Ser Boros. But that doesn't concern me at the moment. Stannis always went on about having a sense of duty and responsibility. He wasn't at King's Landing to attend neither Jon Arryn's funeral nor attend my coronation. And with Renly starting his damned, pointless rebellion, I'll need ships and Stannis is a military commander. Last I heard he was busy building new ships. And we'll need him on our side."

Ser Lucius noted this. "Still, it'd be best to remain on-guard."

"Very well."

The fast they get this business over with, the faster they could return to King's Landing to prepare to put down the insurrection. The carved gateway began to slowly open, revealing Lord Stannis Baratheon, Ser Davos Seaworth and the red priestess Melisandre. The trio stepped forward as Stannis and Daveth stood facing each other, but only Davos was the one who bent to one knee.

"Nephew," Stannis said with a chill courtesy.

"Uncle Stannis," Daveth returned.

Davos rose to his feet. "Your Grace, you honor us with your presence," he greeted, causing Daveth to look directly at him.

"And you are…?"

"Ser Davos, Your Grace, of House Seaworth."

Before Daveth could open his mouth to speak, he was cut off.

"You needn't ask about my House, Your Grace. It's… rather new. Your uncle, Lord Stannis, knighted me after the rebellion."

"It's rude to interrupt the King when he's talking,  _Ser_  Davos of House Seaworth," said Ser Boros.

Daveth turned to his Kingsguard. "A minor mistake, Ser Boros. He knows his place, and he will not let it happen again. Do I make myself clear?"

Ser Boros bowed his head slightly. "My apologies, Your Grace."

"I had not thought you had it in you to find your way here," Stannis said. "Last I heard you were at King's Landing, sitting on the Iron Throne."

Daveth noticed how deepset Stannis's eyes were and how stern his facial expression looked. It was obvious his uncle was not a man made for easy courtesies.

"What brings you to Dragonstone?" he finally asked.

"Renly has betrayed House Baratheon and has risen up in revolt against the Iron Throne, calling himself King with the intent on taking the throne for himself. Our last reports informed us that the Reach has declared for him, sealing it with a marriage-alliance to Lord Mace of House Tyrell's daughter, Lady Margaery. The scouts tell us Renly has amassed an army of over 100,000 men and plans to march on the capital. I came here to enlist your aid in putting down this pointless rebellion."

Stannis looked closely at Daveth, analyzing his words bit by bit as his face remained stern. It was at this point that Melisandre spoke up.

"We don't need to ask this lord or that lord for aid, the Lord of Light stands behind us."

Daveth scoffed as he raised an eyebrow. "And you must be the infamous fire priestess I've heard so much about… Tell me, how many ships does  _your_  god command?"

"He doesn't need armies," Melisandre calmly replied.

"But  _we_  do," Daveth pointed out before returning his gaze to Stannis. "For the first time since the Greyjoy Rebellion, we are at war. And pointless, unnecessary wars benefit no one but those who continue to spout such ignorance."

"And you want my help," Stannis concluded. "But you're still a boy. Never fought in a war like your father and I have."

"Have you forgotten your duties, Uncle Stannis?" Daveth replied rather sternly, deciding to get straight to the point.

Stannis frowned at this perceived insult to his code of honor, yet was slightly amused at his nephew standing his ground – refusing to budge even an inch. He said nothing as he let Daveth continue.

"I have Baratheon blood running through my veins, just the same as you do. As did father, as does Renly. You once told me a long time ago that we don't always get to choose our destinies, but we must simply do our duty. 'Great or small, we must do our duty'. Those were  _your_ words. I understand that as King I must do what needs to be done, but I'm just one man." Daveth stepped forward to stare directly at Stannis's eyes and issued an ultimatum. "And so I stand here before you now, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone. Bend the knee and swear me an oath of fealty… and in return," he spoke more calmly and calculating, "I will undo the greatest act of dishonor that my father inflicted on you, undo much wrong he did to you and see that your proper rights to the Stormlands are restored. But only if you bend the knee."

Stannis looked at his nephew, not saying anything. Daveth was young, Stannis will admit, but he has the same fighting spirit as he and Robert did in their youth. And his proposal seemed to re-open old wounds. His face continued to show no emotion and remain stern. After a long moment, Stannis finally turned to his page and Davos's son, Matthos.

"Fetch my quill and paper."

* * *

**Meanwhile, in the Stormlands…**

* * *

A large tournament is staged near Bitterbridge where the road crosses the Mander. Smoke of numerous camp fires was made apparent. Then the sound came drifting across farm and field and rolling plain, indistinct as the murmur of some distant sea, but swelling as they rode closer. By the time the Mander's muddy waters were glinting in the sun, voices of men were hollering rather loudly, the clatter of steel clashing against steel, as was the whinny of horses. A forest had surely been felled to make the tall staffs that held the green banners of Houses Baratheon and Tyrell. Great siege engines were lined on the grassy verge of the roseroad, mangonels and trebuchets and rolling rams mounted on wheels taller than a man on horseback. The steel points of pikes flamed red with sunlight, as if already blooded, while the pavilions of the knights and high lords sprouted from the grass like silken mushrooms.

Renly Baratheon's own customized banner flew the highest of all, depicting a gold stag on a green field. He had long since fled King's Landing and traveled to Highgarden, where he declared himself the claimant King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm in opposition to his nephew King Daveth I Baratheon. It didn't take long for the Oathkeeper to denounce Renly and attaint him for treason. Yet despite the charges, Renly Baratheon stood tall and proud and was confident in his chances after rallying an estimated 100,000 men—the combined forces of the Stormlands and the Reach—when he married Margaery Tyrell, daughter of Lord Mace Tyrell and his lover Ser Loras's sister two weeks ago, although his wife was aware of her husband's relationship with her brother and saw no problem with it. Margaery is said to be as beautiful as she is clever by many, having a slender but womanly figure with smooth, unblemished pale skin and small breasts. Her dress included a sheer gown of ivory silk, Myrish lace, and seed pearls. Today her dress was a green with a cloak of autumn flowers, and a pale green samite gown with a tight-laced bodice that bares her shoulders and the top of her bosom.

Renly stood on a high pedestal with Margaery at his side, watching Loras compete in the final round of the melee against a rather large competitor, holding up a shield containing yellow suns on rose quartered with white crescents on an azure field – indicating Loras's opponent was hailed from House Tarth of Evenfall Hall.

***BAM!***

***SLAM!***

***GRUNT!***

***GROAN!***

***SWING!***

***SMACK!***

Margaery stood up from her seat. "Loras! Highgarden!" she clapped her hands together in excitement.

Ser Loras continued raining blow after blow against his opponent garnered in gold and blue armor. When the longaxe caught the blue knight's hand on the backswing and sent the morningstar flying from their grasp, the crowd screamed like a rutting beast. The Knight of Flowers raised his axe for the final blow. The blue knight charged into it, the blunted axehead smashed against the scarred blue breastplate… but somehow the blue knight had the haft locked between steel-gauntleted fingers and tackled the Knight of the Flowers before slamming him to the ground.

***THUD!***

Loras grunted as the crowd gasped in silence, including his sister. His opponent stood over Loras, flicked open the Knight of the Flowers's visor, and pulled out a long dirk before pointing it in his face.

"Yield! I yield!" Loras called out, holding up both his arms in surrender.

The gold and blue knight climbed unsteadily to their feet as squires dashed onto the field to help Ser Loras Tyrell up to his feet. When they got his helm off, Loras's hair was a mess.

"Well fought," King Renly called to the champion. "Rise. Remove your helm."

The knight complied, revealing to be a woman. She stood unusually tall and muscular for a woman by Westerosi standards. A few voices hailed him with cries of "Tarth!" and, oddly, "A Beauty! A Beauty!" but most were silent. She knelt before the rival King.

"You are all your father promised and more, my lady," Renly's voice carried over the field. "I've seen Ser Loras bested once or twice, but never quite in that fashion."

"Now, now, my love. My brother fought valiantly for you," Margaery spoke up.

"That he did, my Queen. But there can be only one champion. Brienne of Tarth, you may ask anything of me you desire. If it is within my power, it is yours."

"Your Grace," Brienne answered. "I ask the honor of a place in your Kingsguard."

"What?!" Loras exclaimed. Others in the crowd were quick to join in.

"I will be one of your seven, pledge my life to yours, and keep you safe from all harm."

"Brienne the Beauty", "The Maid of Tarth", that's what they called her mockingly. The hair beneath the visor was a squirrel's nest of dirty straw, and her face… Brienne's eyes were large and very blue, a young girl's eyes, trusting and guileless, but her features were broad and coarse, her teeth prominent and crooked, her mouth too wide, her lips so plump they seemed swollen.

And yet, Renly looked at her with such warmth and compassion. "Done," he announced. "Rise, Brienne of the Kingsguard."

***APPLAUSE!***

As Renly, Margaery and other attendees clapped for Brienne of Tarth as the champion of the melee, Loras didn't join in. He felt humiliated for he had lost  _twice_  now; once to Daveth Baratheon in the Hand's Tourney joust last year, and now to a woman. And ugly woman, he'd say. But because Brienne was inducted into the Kingsguard, he felt no choice but to reluctantly do so as he was Renly's Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. One of Renly's bannermen, Ser Colen of Greenpools, swung off his horse to approach the gallery.

"Your Grace! I beg your leave," he went to one knee. "A raven arrived moments ago from King's Landing."

Renly shifted slightly. "Show it to me," he commanded.

Ser Colen rose and handed Renly a letter, waxed with a gold sage. Renly undid the seal and opened the letter and began to read aloud:

> _"To the traitor Renly Baratheon,_
> 
> _It has come to my attention that you have raised your banners in rebellion against the Crown with the sole intent to claim the Iron Throne for yourself. Years ago you swore a solemn vow to faithfully serve the realm with dignity and loyalty, the same pledge you yourself swore to my father and your brother the late King Robert Baratheon._
> 
> _Yet not long after my coronation, you commit treason by unlawfully declaring yourself King despite being fifth in line of the royal succession. In doing so you've named yourself an enemy of the Crown and a traitor to the realm. Not once in a thousand years would I have to punish my own flesh and blood. But your actions have forced my hand._ _Because we share the same blood of the Baratheon stag, this will be the last warning I'll be sending. Lay down your arms, come to me at King's Landing within the fortnight, and maybe I'll consider pardoning you. Refuse, however, and your house will be destroyed, root and stem. None will be shown any mercy._
> 
> _On that you have my word._
> 
> _I'll be sending an envoy to meet you on the border between the Crownlands and Stormlands to hear your reply._
> 
> _Signed,  
>  Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name  
>  The rightful King of the Andals and the First Men • Lord of the Seven Kingdoms _•_ Protector of the Realm"_

Renly finished looking over the letter, looking blatantly as many assembled heard the words detailed in the letter. Most were worried, others wanted to fight.

_'He speaks like a Lannister,'_  Renly thought. He stood up from the gallery and made his way down to the arena. "Ser Colen, have the men ready and prepare to move out. It appears it we'll be getting an armed response soon. But first…," Renly smirked with pride. "I'd really like to hear what my nephew's 'envoy' has to say."


	20. Preparations for War

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

King Daveth and his two Kingsguard knights had returned to the capital and had summoned his military advisors to meet him at the White Sword Tower to discuss tactics; regardless of the attempt at parley, Daveth knew that war was inevitable and the Oathkeeper had to muster enough of his forces to be ready to hold the capital long enough for reinforcements to arrive should Renly's massive army close in. Yet despite knowing the odds, Daveth couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction following his meeting with his uncle Lord Stannis Baratheon on the island of Dragonstone, a small satisfying grin crept upon his face. He extended Stannis an offer: pledge fealty and rule both the Stormlands  _and_  Dragonstone once Renly was struck down. Stannis had apparently given his nephew the answer he had been waiting for.

_"You'll get half of my fleet. 150 warships and a few auxiliary vessels,"_ he remembered Stannis telling him. _"And when the fighting's done, you'll have the rest."_

Daveth knew something was better than nothing, and having a large portion of the Royal Fleet at his disposal should be more than sufficient enough to harass the rebel army by sea but also deal with the Redwyne Fleet as well. He leans over a table detailing a map of Westeros, flanked by those he assembled: Ser Lucius Blackmyre, Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Jaime Lannister, Ser Barristan Selmy, and the Hand of the King Lord Eddard Stark.

"The rebel armies are beginning to mobilize," Daveth informed his generals, "though at least some of the Storm Lords have started to question the meaning of Renly's actions. Our men stationed in King's Landing are seeing to the city's defenses should the fighting ever comes here."

"Our scouts report that Lord Randyll Tarly and his men are moving north to root out those loyal to the King, some around 7,000. Infantry and some light cavalry," Eddard added. "We should dispatch troops to break the siege and get them to our side."

"And what if it's a trap, my Lord Hand?" Lucius questioned. "In a real war, the side with the greater number wins nine times out of ten. Meet Renly's soldiers out in the open field, it'll only end in a massacre. We need to divide Renly's army into separate cells, draw them out towards us into a rather enclosed area where they won't have enough room to move independently and we can surround them."

Jaime chimed in. "Pick them off one at a time, and their numbers should gradually start to drop; harass them with guerilla-style hit-and-runs long enough until an opportunity shows itself and we should mount a counterattack. Thanks to my nephew's… uh, 'compromise' with Lord Stannis, we've manage to acquire enough ships from Dragonstone to launch a naval siege to Storm's End."

"Storm's End is a well-defended fortress and is guarded by the storms, jagged rocks and wild waters of Shipbreaker Bay," Barristan argued. "Try to lay anchor and not only could we end up losing most of our fleet but we'd lose the only advantage we have."

Daveth sighed shaking his head. "But to do either we will need to acquire more men; the garrison here in King's Landing doesn't have enough and the City Watch patrolling the city is stretched thin."

"And what of the Reach, Your Grace?" Eddard ponders. "The Reach is the most fertile land in all the Seven Kingdoms. With access to food cut off, many in the city including our own men will starve. Even the crops we receive from the Riverlands could only last for so long."

"Renly could feed his troops and continue to march on the capital almost unopposed," finished Barristan.

"I say we burn them," Jaime suggested. "Raid their camps, break their supply lines and take whatever they've got from Highgarden and provide it to the soldiers."

Lucius looked at the Kingslayer. "Did you not hear a word that was said here, boy? Meet them in the open field would be a catastrophe," he sighed and massaged his wrinkled temples. "The King is right about this, though. To do whatever we propose here would require more troops if we're to ever make a move."

Daveth studied the map closely. "With the roads leading to both Stormlands and the Reach cut off the area closest to us is the Westerlands. My grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister has the largest army in all of Westeros, some 60,000 men. I hear he's already been informed of the situation and established a basecamp. The Riverlands are already on our side and Lord Hoster Tully has agreed to send a token force to aid us." The King leaned up straight and turned to face Eddard. "Lord Stark, I need you to send a raven to Winterfell. Convince Robb to assemble the Northern army to help us."

"Robb? He's just a boy."

"As was I, as we all were once. Yet do you hear anyone in this room complaining? No one stays young forever. And in times of war, we'll need as many abled bodies as we can muster. I know you care for your family, but what other options do we have?"

Eddard shook his head in disapproval. He didn't want to get his family involved, but… "I'll see what I can do," he answered.

"Ser Jaime will ride for the Westerlands to rendezvous with the Lannister forces and lay siege to Highgarden. Our fleet will sail to the Arbor under the cover of night and cripple the Redwyne Fleet before they even have a chance to set sail."

"Of course, Your Grace. Still, you think it'll work?"

"We won't know unless we try. Ser Lucius, you and Ser Barristan will both take a contingent unit of Tully soldiers to break Lord Tarly's siege on the dissenting Storm Lords. Do that, and they'll consider joining us. But be careful. Randyll Tarly is a shrewd and capable man, one of the finest military commanders Westeros has ever seen – the only one to defeat my father in battle."

"Wouldn't it be simpler to just execute the traitorous rebels, Your Grace?" Meryn spoke bluntly. "It would send a clear message to any who'd dare rise against you again."

Daveth shook his head. "No, Ser Meryn. If any of them are Renly's senior officers, then they could possess valuable information we cannot afford to let slip through our fingers. And if they're willing and wish to atone for not acting sooner, then we will bring them into the fold."

Barristan smiled in approval, seeing this as an act of mercy.

"Isn't that being a little too merciful?" Meryn asked regardless.

Daveth shook his head. "No. In fact, I think we are being quite cruel…" he said rather coolly.

"The traitor and degenerate Renly Baratheon is going to reject whatever terms you offer, you know."

"And I'm counting on it. Pray that he's that stupid."

Meryn's face twitched, but the warrior nodded in acknowledgment at the King's order.

"Ser Meryn and I will both remain in the city with Ser Mandon, Ser Boros and Ser Preston and see to its defenses," he continued. "You've all been given your assignments, and are free to act on the field as commanders in service to the crown. Each of you represent the best Westeros has to offer. You are the elite, knights of the Kingsguard. I know you will do your duty. And so it is a proud honor that I send you into battle. Show the rebels the error of their actions, and the price they'll pay if they refuse to bend the knee. Dismissed."

The assembled Kingsguard bowed their heads and left the room, intent on carrying their assigned task. Before Eddard could leave, he was stopped.

"Lord Stark."

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"If you have a moment… Send for my sister. Myrcella. I need to have a word with her. Alone."

Eddard nodded and left, leaving Daveth in the White Sword Tower by himself.

"Uncle Renly… Hmph! Look at him. He's lost sight of the bigger picture," Daveth thought aloud, his frown turning to an exasperated snarl. "And his greedy ambition blinds him to the truth; no clear goal, ignoring the fact the he fails to even understand his own limits… Using people, bringing war, death and destruction… It seems there are too many people like him in this world. What an imbecile."

***SLAM!***

Daveth brought his fist down and slammed the table in front of him so hard it caused a few cracks in the wood. Ignoring the throbbing numbness in his hand, Daveth slowly lifted his head up as he looked out the window – his face portrayed a cold yet ferocity of a lion's strength, and the spark was lit to ignite the fire of his fury. "Renly Baratheon must DIE!"

* * *

**Somewhere in the Westerlands…**

* * *

Tyrion Lannister was already on his long march through the Westerlands to the capital after his victorious trial by combat at the Eryie, when he suddenly noticed crimson tents bearing the Lannister sigil and campfires emitting smoke.

_'This is a war camp,'_  he realized. Something's not right.

Accompanying Tyrion was Bronn, a hired sellsword who acted as his champion in his trial of combat at the Vale, along with the Mountains of the Moon hill tribesmen who accompanied the Imp: Shagga, leader of the Stone Crows; Gunthor of the Stone Crows; Timett, leader of the Burned Men; Ulf, leader of the Moon Brothers; and Chella, leader of the Black Ears. Moving into the Lannister camp, Shagga and the hill tribe follow. Upon entering the main tent, two senior men are sitting at a table, scheming. The one elderly man standing was Ser Kevan Lannister, uncle to Queen Cersei, Ser Jaime and Tyrion, and father to Lancel. The other one sitting was Lord Tywin Lannister, ruler of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and King Daveth's grandfather. Even seated, Tywin was tall and slender with long legs, greyish blonde hair, pale green eyes, broad shoulders and a flat stomach. The former Hand of the King of nearly 20 years, Twyin has a very powerful presence and easily intimidates those around him… even members of his own family. Daveth himself, as powerful as he is, still has to tread with caution when dealing with his noble grandfather.

  

"Tyrion," Kevan said in surprise, the first to see him.

"Uncle. Father," Tyrion bows.

The Old Lion, Lord Tywin Lannister, did not stir from his chair but gave his dwarf son a long, cold look. "The rumors surrounding your demise were unfounded."

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"And who are these… companions of yours?" he asked as cool as snow, noticing the hill tribesmen and sellsword standing behind Tyrion.

Tyrion took a moment to introduce them. "This is Shagga, son of Dolf, chieftain of the Stone Crows. Timett, son of Timett, ruler of the Burned Men. This fair maid is Chella, daughter of Cheyk, leader of the Black Ears. And here we have Bronn, son of…"

Bronn merely shook his head. "You wouldn't know him," he shrugged.

With that Tyrion turned to introduce Tywin to his traveling companions as the Old Lion, still sitting down, stood tall and proudly. "May I present my lord father, Tywin, son of Tytos of House Lannister. Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West. Kind of you to go to war for me," he said as he reached to pour himself a cup of his father's wine.

Tywin quickly grabbed the cup and moved it away. "By my lights, you left us no choice. The honor of the house was at stake. My grandson would never have had to stoop so low as to get you out of trouble if you hadn't been meekly submitted to capture at the hands of a woman."

"What can I say? I must be his favorite uncle. Considering the amount of effort he's put in for me."

"Daveth's been paying his father's debts to our house for a long time. Just this morning he sent a raven informing me of the situation further south."

"Riverrun has sent a token force to lift the siege at Bronzegate and Summerhall, but are being pushed back by the rebels," Kevan spoke up. "Jaime is currently on his way here. Once he does, he will take 30,000 men to march on Highgarden and the surrounding areas."

"And the Starks? Lord Eddard—?"

"—is still in King's Landing," Tywin finished for him, "where he remains as Hand of the King."

Kevan chimed in. "We expect the Northmen to be calling their banners as well."

_'Things really had gotten interesting while I was gone,'_  Tyrion reflected. "And what of our fearless monarch? How did Ned allow the great King Robert to permit his youngest brother to lose his homeland  _and_  the Reach all at once?"

"Robert Baratheon is dead," Tywin said. "Daveth rules in King's Landing."

Now that  _did_ take Tyrion aback as he took another gulp of ale. The realm had seemed like a different place with Daveth ruling in place of his father. "Daveth… is King?"

Both Tywin and Kevan nodded their heads in confirmation. "Daveth has already sent Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Barristan Selmy leading a host of Tully soldiers to engage Lord Randyll Tarly's forces near the Grassy Vale. They've already acted on whispers of discontent among the enemy ranks and will move to exploit it before they are silenced," informed Kevan.

"A green boy," Tywin shifted in his seat.

"Maybe," Tyrion said, "but Daveth's rather determined to see it through no matter the odds. You'd like how far he's come since Lannisport. While we're on the subject of war, however, I made promises to my friends here and a Lannister always pays his debts. We shall require 3,000 helms and shields, plus swords, pikes, gorgets, maces…"

Suddenly a messenger appears, interrupting Tyrion. "If it pleases my lord, Ser Addam bids me report that the Reachmen are approaching the Goldengrove."

Lord Tywin Lannister did not smile as he stood to his feet, nearly towering over all those in attendance. Lord Tywin never smiled, but Tyrion had learned to read his father's pleasure all the same, and it was there on his face.

"The weeds think they can try to strangle the lion, unaware they're running straight into the lion's jaws," Tywin said in a voice of quiet satisfaction. "So be it. Kevan, command the drummers beat assembly. And send word to Jaime that I am moving south."

"At once, my lord."

Tywin turned his attention towards the hill tribesmen. "It is said that the men of the Mountain clans are great warriors. Ride with me against my enemies and you shall have my son promised you and more."

"Only if the half man fights with us," Shagga proclaimed. "Until we hold the steel he pledged us, the little lion's life is ours."

Tywin looks over to Tyrion, who looks shocked at the request.

* * *

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

"'Reinforcements?'" Robb recited the words written on the paper he was reading. "Father wrote this?"

A raven had arrived at Winterfell bearing a letter marked with the Hand of the King's seal and written in Eddard's hand; the cruel truth seemed no less incredible. They were a thousand leagues away, planning to mount an attempt to defend King's Landing and stall the claimant King Renly Baratheon's forces long enough to buy time.

Maester Luwin nodded, "It is your father's hand, but no doubt it was the King's words. From what we've learned so far, they're fighting an incredibly large army and don't have enough men to hold the capital should the war come to King's Landing."

"Father, Daveth… both of my sisters Sansa and Arya are there."

"They are, my lord. Should you ever need to answer the call—"

"I'm going," Robb proclaimed. "If my father and His Grace both requested my help, then it the situation seems dire. But I won't go alone. Call the banners."

"All of them, my lord?"

"They are sworn to defend my father, are they not?"

"They have."

"Now we'll see what their words are worth."

Maester Luwin nods and leaves the Great Hall to send word. As the caws and wing flaps from numerous ravens begin to make its sounds known, Robb sat next to Theon – who was busy getting himself cladded in armor and polishing his sword. Robb was already wearing a surcoat over his leather armor and was ready to begin the long march south, accompanied by his direwolf Grey Wind. Grey Wind has grown larger and lean and was quite bold; just moments ago he had already jumped over the table so fast and bit off two of Lord Greatjon Umber's fingers when the lord unsheathed his sword after being refused the honor of commanding the Northern army's vanguard. Not long after saying his farewells to Bran (now fully awake) and leaving the boy in command of Winterfell in his stead, Robb felt his right hand beginning to tremble.

"Are you afraid?" Theon asks.

"I must be," Robb answers, noticing his hand was shaking.

"Good."

"Why is that good?"

"Because it means you're not stupid." For once Theon didn't smile. His lean, dark face had a hungry look to it, and dark brown hair fell down across his eyes.

Robb said nothing, as both Stark and Greyjoy left Winterfell on their respective horses as they prepare to rally the North and begin their long march down the Neck.

* * *

**At the parley, somewhere in the Stormlands…**

* * *

 

For almost a year since the deaths of Lord Jon Arryn and their eldest brother King Robert I Baratheon, after what seemed like as a long time, both Stannis and Renly Baratheon come face-to-face at the scheduled meeting place for the attempt to parley; each of them were guarded by a selection of their own troops.

"Stannis?" Renly said surprised. " _You're_  Daveth's envoy?"

"Who else might I have been?" Stannis replied curtly.

"Well, when I first saw your standard I couldn't be sure as to who you were," Renly said as he gave an easy shrug before noticing a banner depicting a crowned black stag enwrapped in a fiery red heart. "Who's banner is that?" he asked.

"My own."

Renly, still smirking with confidence, was rather cheerful. "I suppose if we both used the same one, then the battle would be terribly confusing. But why is your stag on fire?"

The red-clad priestess Melisandre spoke up. "Your brother has taken for his sigil the fiery heart of the Lord of Light."

"Ah, you must be this fire priestess we hear so much about," Renly said amused. "Mm, brother, now I understand why you found religion in your old age."

Stannis was not amused. "Watch yourself, Renly," he warned.

"No, no, I'm relieved. I never really believed you're a fanatic. Charmless, rigid, a bore, yes, but  _not_  a godly man."

"You should kneel when speaking to your betters, Lord Renly," Melisandre said. "The King has selected the Lord's chosen, his uncle Lord Stannis – born amidst salt and smoke – to represent the Crown's interest."

"'Born amidst salt and smoke'? Is he a ham?" Renly mocked.

"That's twice I've warned you," Stannis warned again. "If you have proposals to make, make them. If you have an answer, say it. Or I will be gone."

"Very well. I propose that you and Daveth bend your knee, and swear me your allegiance."

"That you shall never have."

"You served Robert, why not me?"

"Robert was my elder brother. You are the younger. And Daveth is our brother's seed."

"Well, out of all of us I am younger, bolder, and far more comely―"

"―and a thief and a usurper besides."

"The Targaryens called Robert usurper. He seemed to be able to bear the shame. So shall I."

"Regardless of what you think, the Iron Throne is Daveth's by right. Nearly every noble House of Westeros supports our nephew's claim, and yet somehow you don't. Instead you chose to be a mere pretender."

"Our nephew may have the better claim, Stannis, but  _I_  have the larger army," smiled Renly as he slid his hand inside his cloak reaching for the hilt of his blade, but instead grabbed a peach. "Would you like one, brother? From Highgarden. You've never tasted anything so sweet, I promise you."

As he took a bite, Stannis was fuming.

"Life is short, Stannis. Remember what the Starks say. 'Winter is coming.'"

"I did not come here to listen to you threaten me."

"Nor did I come to be threatened by you! When I make threats, you'll know it. If truth be told, I've never liked you, Stannis, but you are my own blood, and I have no wish to slay you. So if it is Storm's End you want, take it… as a brother's gift. As Robert once gave it to me, I give it to you."

"Enough!" Stannis roared. "It is not yours to give. It is  _mine_  by rights."

Renly sighed. "A man without friends is a man without power, brother."

"I'm not without mercy. For the sake of the mother who bore us, I will tell you one last time to strike your banners, come to Daveth before dawn, and he might consider dismissing the charges against you. If not, then I'll destroy you."

"Look across those fields, brother," Renly pointed to his bannermen. "Can you see all those banners?"

"You think a few bolts of cloth will make you King?" Stannis dared.

"No. The men holding those bolts will make me King."

Stannis shook his head. He wasn't surprised this would happen, but at least he did his duty and did as he was instructed to do. "So be it. You disappoint me, Renly. Come the dawn, you will realize your grave mistake."

"Look to your sins, Lord Renly," spoke Melisandre. "The night is dark and full of terrors."

As the two rode off to King's Landing to inform Daveth, Renly and Ser Loras Tyrell and the rest of Renly's Kingsguards looked on.

"Would you believe? I loved him once."

After that, Renly and his bodyguards turned and galloped to the main camp. It appears that war was inevitable; and once the two armies clashed swords, only one will come out on top.


	21. Golden Lioness vs. Black Lion

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

 

King Daveth I stood in his chambers looking over numerous documents in his hands, each of them contained battlefield reports from his generals and other noble houses loyal to him; according to Ser Lucius's report, Lord Randyll Tarly's attempt to root out dissension among the traitorous Renly Baratheon's ranks at the Grassy Vale were thwarted. Ser Lucius and Ser Barristan were able to use the familiarity of the terrain and have their troops divide portions of the much larger rebel host and pick them off one-by-one after luring them deep into the Rainwood forest where they weren't able to maneuver upon being packed against each other too tightly. As a result, a number Storm Lords were brought into the fold and a few Reachmen had defected. Casualties were small, but due to Lucius and Barristan's combat experience, the rebel losses were much higher and the mission was ultimately successful.

His uncle Ser Jaime had taken half of the main bulk of the Lannister armies and deployed several tactics like hit-and-run and feigned retreat against the Reachmen, overrunning Goldengrove and currently laying siege to Highgarden. Word soon arrived that the Tyrell forces led by Ser Loras were planning to launch a vicious counterattack. Losses were light, but they weren't allowed a moment's respite. Word arrived from Lord Tywin Lannister that he'll be moving his forces south towards Bitterbridge and from there he'll push the rebels east towards Ashford to set up their trebuchets. The naval night raid at Arbor, however, ended in a stalemate. The surprise attack was partially successful, but some of the Redwyne Fleet under the command of Lord Paxter Redwyne managed to set sail and sink 20 Royal Fleet vessels. The scouts' reports indicate the Redywne Fleet were last seen sailing through the Summer Sea, and plan to head up the Narrow Sea to gather the 40,000 rebel troops stationed at Tarth and advance on King's Landing through Blackwater Bay.

_'How clever… Utilizing a diversionary force to draw our attention away from the capital and strike from behind with superior numbers,'_  thought Daveth as he started to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

Luckily for the royalist forces Daveth had already been preparing for such a likely scenario. Beneath that lurked a response letter he was about to read; but before Daveth could read it his thoughts were interrupted when a knock on the door was heard.

"Come in," he spoke up as he put the papers down.

When the door opened, Myrcella stepped into the room. Her golden curls had grown to waist length and had grown into a beautiful 16-year-old young woman, having already developed a delicate figure. Myrcella had looked almost identical to their mother in terms of beauty; thankfully Myrcella had none of her mother's nature and was still a sweet girl. She smiled warmly at her eldest brother, yet somehow felt somewhat nervous at the same time. Myrcella was informed by Eddard Stark that Daveth had summoned her. She couldn't help but wonder why her brother asked for her personally. Did she do something wrong? Is Daveth feeling all right?

"Your Grace," Myrcella curtseyed politely.

Daveth slightly shook his head in amusement. "You don't have to call me that whenever we're in private, 'Cella."

Myrcella giggled, but soon ceased when she noticed Daveth's posture.

"You wanted to see me, brother?" she asked, fidgeting her fingers.

"I did, yes."

Daveth motioned his hand in the direction of the empty seat in front of his desk. Myrcella looked and moved to sit down, with Daveth following suit – still standing as he looked out the open window towards the Blackwater Rush.

"Am I in trouble for something?" Myrcella asked.

"What? No, no you're not!" Daveth said surprised as he shook his head vigorously. "You know me better than that. I wouldn't send for you unless it was something of utmost importance." He placed a hand on the windowsill. "You're 16 now, Myrcella. Do you understand what that means?"

"I…" she started to speak but was cut off.

"In times like this, I sometimes forget that you're not a little girl anymore; much to my dismay, to be sure. Our mother brought us into this world, and for many years I've done everything in my power as an older brother to ensure your safety and happiness as a paramount importance in our family. But now that I'm King…" he paused hesitatingly before resuming. "But now that I'm King, I have other responsibilities. This matter involves you."

Now Myrcella was getting nervous. "What are you getting at?" she asked. "Is it because of the war?"

"Partially because of the war, yes. But the other half is why I asked you here."

Myrcella inhaled and prepared herself. She continued looking at the man who always looked after her and Tommen and kept them safe from Joffrey tormenting them or their father King Robert not spending enough time with the four of them. To Myrcella, Daveth was her eldest brother and a surrogate father figure for her. He played with her, helped their mother raise her. She adored her brother, idolized him. But something about the way he spoke troubled her. He was fighting a war against their traitorous uncle Renly, and Myrcella wondered if there was anything she could possibly to try and help Daveth as best as she could to take some of the burden off of him. Daveth turned to see Myrcella looking innocently at him; her green eyes sparkled in the sunlight. This was actually  _a lot_  harder than he thought. Daveth finally stepped away from the window and sat at his desk in front of Myrcella, reaching his hand over to take his sister's hand in his own.

"You are my cherished little sister, Myrcella. As your older brother, I need you to do something for me, something that I've never asked you before. It's… rather complicated, but it's for the sake of our family that you secure an alliance for us."

Myrcella gently squeezed her brother's hand. "Of course, brother. Anything. What can I do to help?"

Daveth slowly inhaled through his nostrils. "Here," he forwarded Myrcella a latter.

The Princess took the unsealed letter and read it:

> " _To His Grace and the Oathkeeper, King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name,_
> 
> _After much thought and careful consideration, it is my esteemed pleasure that I inform you the arrangement between our two houses is hereby accepted. Your sister, Princess Myrcella of House Baratheon, is to be wed to my son and heir Prince Trystane of House Martell when they both come of age. One of our ships will soon depart from Sunspear en route to the capital of King's Landing to retrieve her._
> 
> _As a sign of good faith, you have my solemn pledge that once your sister arrives in Dorne, she will be protected by my guards. Unlike the Lannisters, we do not harm little girls in Dorne. Not while I rule._ _I also understand that it took a lot from you to reach out to us directly – given the circumstances. But I've seen what the horrors of war does to people and the scars it leaves behind._ _I've seen bodies pile up on the battlefields, orphans starving in the cities._ _My sister, Elia, was raped and murdered along with her two children, my_ _niece Rhaenys and my nephew Aegon during the War of the Usurper. I_ _don't want to see my people like that, and I'm sure you don't as well._
> 
> _I will send word once we know when the marriage ceremony will_ _commence._
> 
> _Signed,  
>  Prince Doran of House Martell  
>  __Lord of Sunspear · Prince of Dorne_ "

Myrcella took a moment to take in what she had just read. Her brother was… sending her away? To Dorne?

"You're sending me away?" her voice started to crack.

Daveth shook his head. He somehow knew this was coming, but he had to do it. He didn't like the idea or even want to use his little sister as a pawn, but Daveth had to put the pieces back together again.

"I am  _not_ sending you away on a whim, Myrcella. Try to understand that proposal is for the good of the realm as a whole in the long run," he explained. "We are not Seven Kingdoms until Dorne returns to the fold. The Dornishmen have been living as isolationists for almost twenty years, and whatever events that took place during our Father's war against the Targaryen dynasty are still felt there. Jon Arryn tried to make peace with the Martells, but even then it only went so far. I had to go to great lengths to ensure that whatever attempts at reconciliation can be reached with House Martell is met. It's not much, but it's a start." Daveth sighed wearily as he stood up, bringing Myrcella along with him to overlook the bay below them. "There's also this," he told her. "In the event should the fighting ever reach the capital and the rebels end up emerge victorious… then it's imperative that you make it out of King's Landing alive. Should all of us end up being put to the sword, me, mother, Joffrey, Tommen, then it'll be up to you to lead our house, Myrcella. I know none of this seems fair, but I wouldn't ask you to do this if I wasn't certain you could pull it off."

Myrcella tried not to be upset; the thought of being away from her family brought down her sunny disposition. But she understood her duty and listened to what her older brother told her. "I'll do it," she sniffled. "If that's what you want… I'll do it."

Daveth felt his heart ache. "…Just like that?"

"Just like that."

"You don't even know the boy you'll be married off to, this Trystane lad, and yet you give your consent to this match?"

Myrcella wiped her eyes and nodded. "I don't want to leave, but you're my older brother and the King," she replied. "I'm sure you believe this is for the best."

"Believe me, I've asked myself that countless times and still I'm not sure what I'm doing." He cupped Myrcella's chin and lifted her head up. "Besides, you know I wouldn't let anyone treat my little sister badly, right?" Daveth tried to reassure Myrcella with a warm smile. "Because the moment I hear differently, I'll pull the Martell boy aside and give him the talk. 'Be good to little 'Cella or I'll make you regret the day you were born'."

Myrcella laughed a bit after hearing Daveth tried to tell a joke to cheer her up whenever she was upset, something she always appreciated.

"Are you sure you consent to this match?"

"I consent."

Myrcella pulled Daveth into a long, warm hug. "You… you promise to visit me in Dorne?"

Daveth nodded and held her tight. "I promise, 'Cella. I'll even write you letters. You have my word."

With that, Myrcella felt a little bit better – believing that everything was going to be alright despite the rebellion going on right now. Her brother placed a great deal of faith in her and asked her for the first time to do something for him in return. Myrcella swore she wouldn't let Daveth down, no matter what.

"I love you, big brother."

"I know," he responded quietly.

But unbeknownst to them, as brother and sister hugged for what seemed like eternity, someone was watching them before taking off.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

* * *

 

"How dare you!"

Those were the words Cersei greeted Daveth when she confronted him; judging by her stance and hostility in the tone of her voice, Cersei caught wind of what her eldest son was doing.

"How could you have done such a thing?! Myrcella is my only daughter,  _your own sister_! Do you really think I'll let you sell her like a common whore?!"

"And what would you have me do instead, keep her confined here when the Redwyne Fleet arrives?!" Daveth shouted back. "Myrcella is a Princess, and she's always done her duty!"

"I will not let you ship Myrcella off to Dorne like I was shipped off to your wretched father!"

Daveth felt his anger beginning to increasingly boil, but forced it down. He'll have time to find out who it was that told Cersei of his plans later. Originally both mother and son were so close in the beginning, but ever since Daveth's maturity they've grown rather distant. And with Daveth ascending the Iron Throne as King of the Seven Kingdoms, they don't see eye-to-eye on anything. With the plot to marry Myrcella off to the Martells… the mother-son relationship quickly deteriorated.

"You know damned well what'll happen otherwise! Based on the reports our men send us from the battlefield, if the war does come here then Myrcella will not be safe! And  _I_  for one refuse to allow those rebels anywhere near her!"

"So you send her off to Dorne? Are you mad?! You'd never let any harm come to your little sister! The Martells loathe us, they hate the Lannisters!"

"And whatever mistakes are made on my part, then that's on me! But don't forget that we'll need their support in the long run should Daenerys Targaryen somehow cross the Narrow Sea."

"Your sister will be a hostage."

"A guest."

"It's not enough for you, is it?" Cersei growled with venom and a hint of desperation in her voice. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. You Baratheons love war."

"I'M not the one who started this war! I'm ending it," Daveth shot back at the accusations. "You, on the other hand, have done nothing but try to undermine me and whisper such poison into my ears since my coronation! What's done is done. It's over."

"No."

"Yes."

"No!"

"Yes, it is! And you simply cannot choose to end it regardless because Myrcella has already agreed to this match!"

Cersei stared at Daveth in shock. Her daughter agreed to this match? If so, why was Cersei misinformed by her informant?

"And if they  _do_ harm her," he continued, "then all the might of Westeros will be brought to bear. 'Ours is the Fury', remember? Even the Dornish know this fact all too well. They know their limits. They know they cannot stand against the entire realm."

Cersei didn't answer right away as she sank into a chair and brought her hands to her distraught face. "…Just get out. Please…"

Daveth said nothing, but noticed a hint of sadness behind his mother's words. He turned around and left his mother's room. After closing the door behind him, Daveth began to plot his next move and root out internal strife before it spirals out of control before the war reaches the capital.

"Your Grace," one of his contacts approached.

Daveth turns. "What is it?"

"We've picked up a scent. I believe we found out the perpetrators responsible for the death of Lord Jon Arryn, but also those who seek to conspire against you."


	22. Hard Truths and A Dark Past

* * *

**At the Baratheon-Tyrell main camp, near Storm's End…**

* * *

Inside his own personal tent, the rival King Renly Baratheon was  _not_  having a good day. He had filled his cup yet again with more wine, his cheeks red from possibly having drinking too much of the Arbor gold.

_'Why?!'_  he thought rather frustrated.  _'I'VE got the superior numbers, I'VE got the backing of the Tyrells, and yet somehow I'm losing?! Damn you, Daveth!'_

Renly had clearly underestimated his nephew's tactical prowess and strategic decision-making. When the Oathkeeper formulated his battle plans, his ranking generals carried it out effectively and improvised to ensure it inflicted serious damage. Even after amassing an army of 100,000, Renly's forces were getting harassed left and right by Daveth Baratheon's troops. Tywin Lannister was already marching towards him, Jaime Lannister and the Riverland forces were laying siege to Highgarden and its surrounding areas. Word soon arrived that Robb Stark was leading a Northern vanguard of 20,000 men down the Neck and is stationed near the Trident outside the Twins. If things continue at this pace, he'll end up being surrounded on all sides and the war will be over before it has a chance of reaching its peak. What's more, even some of his own bannermen—both Stormlander and Reachmen—have begun to question Renly.

_'I'm their King! How dare they turn their backs on me!'_

Reports were pouring in detailing a number of defections in his ranks; making his once vastly superior army slowly dwindle when word of Daveth's many victories reached his ears. The once popular Renly Baratheon was finding himself losing support among the smallfolk, denouncing him as a power-hungry madman and proclaiming Daveth the true King before they fled to the gates of King's Landing with the intent to surrender. Renly appears to have placed his final gambit on the Redwyne Fleet as it makes its way around the Summer Sea to the island of Tarth in the Narrow Sea where he'll rendezvous with his 40,000 men. From there they'll sail to the Blackwater Bay and lay siege to King's Landing, hoping to overwhelm the capital's much smaller forces. King Renly had hoped to spend more time with his lover Ser Loras, but the Knight of the Flowers still felt humiliated and being defeated by Brienne of Tarth in the melee as well as his opposition to Renly's decision to appoint Brienne to his Kingsguard.

_"A member of the Kingsguard? As if I wasn't humiliated enough already,"_  was what Loras told Renly in the King's bedchamber before Loras stormed out, no longer in the mood.

Loras, in his defiance, told Renly he was going to Tarth and lead the assembled garrison to wait for Lord Redwyne's fleet to arrive. He intends to lead the assault on King's Landing personally. Brienne of Tarth will stand watch over Renly in Loras's absence.

"I'm sorry, Loras…" Renly said quietly, feeling dizzy from the wine. "But I need every skilled warrior I can muster. I'll find a way to make it up to you, I promise."

As he set the cup down, the flap of his tend opened and Margaery entered. Renly turned to face her. One of the most beautiful maidens in the Seven Kingdoms, thousands of men had desired her but Margaery was promised to Renly. The outfit Margaery wore was a green, U-shaped gown cut at the chest so only her breasts were only half-covered. Any other man wouldn't be able to take their eyes off her.

"I should warn you. I've had quite a bit of wine."

"As is your right. You are a King," Margaery replied sweetly.

The two stared at each other for a while.

"You look very beautiful," Renly finally said.

"Thank you, Your Grace."

"It's a lovely gown."

"You think so? I can't decide how I like it better," she stepped closer as she untied the front of her gown. "This way, or… this way." Opening it up, she let it fall to the ground, exposing her bare chest.

Renly studied his wife up and down, examining her breasts and her smile. "You certainly don't need it."

Margaery placed both hands on Renly's shoulders and leaned forward to kiss him. In between kisses Renly tried to speak.

"Although,… some say the… beauty… most desired… is the beauty concealed…"

She placed a finger on his lips to silence him, and kissed him even longer now. Renly could feel her breasts pressing against his chest; Margaery reached a hand down Renly's breaches.

"It must be the wine…"

"Here. Let me."

Margaery's kisses became more fierce and passionate, but Renly pulled away. "I'm sorry," he apologized as he walked over to the bed.

Margaery rolled her eyes. "Do you want my brother to come in and help?" she asked.

"What?"

"He could get you started. I know he wouldn't mind. Or can I turn over and you can pretend I'm him."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's no need for us to play games. Save your lies for court. You're going to need a lot of them. Your nephew Daveth and the rest of your enemies aren't happy about us. My father took a great risk to make this possible for you. And the best way to stop your enemies is to put your baby in my belly."

"You obviously don't know my nephew that well," Renly shook his head. "Whenever he makes a promise… or a threat, really, he doesn't renege on his word. How do you think Daveth got the name 'Oathkeeper'?"

"I know plenty enough about him. I know how dangerous he is, what he's done. But does it matter?" Margaery said to placate Renly as she sat beside him.

Renly shook his head. "We can try again later," he changed the subject. "Producing an heir, that is."

Margaery was quick to notice. "You can decide how you want to do it. With me, with me and Loras, however else you like. Whatever you need to do. You are a King."

Renly merely stared off into the distance, doubts beginning to manifest and linger. If the attack on King's Landing fails, then all is lost. Should he fail, Daveth will show him and his followers no mercy – that much Renly understands. Whether it's through negotiating and compromising, or war and assassinations… Daveth always seemed to get the results he wants in a short span of time; and the antagonism between the two Baratheon factions continued to worsen by the day.

King Renly needs to hurry, and fast.

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

King Daveth I stood in his chambers reviewing the gathered documents assembled by his contacts; reports suggesting that collective group or  _someone_  within the city was conspiring against him. Earlier this morning he had followed leads and used both his and Varys's spies to trace the lines that connected those amongst his inner circle and those who were loyal to Queen Mother Cersei Lannister, but in the end Daveth found out who it was that told his mother of his plan to marry Myrcella off to Prince Trystane Martell.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _"Your Grace! Please, please, no!" Grand Maester Pycelle pleaded._
> 
> _The old man was already begun taking the liberties with a fair maiden only mere moments before King Daveth kicked open the front door, scaring the young woman as Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant entered the room. Pycelle had been caught in the act._
> 
> _"You disappoint me, Grand Maester," Daveth said plainly. "Thought I would be too gullible to even notice what you were doing?"_
> 
> _"B-but Your Grace, I-I'm your loyal servant!"_
> 
> _"And yet you betrayed me. Varys and Littlefinger aren't the only ones with eyes and ears everywhere. It was rather simple, to be honest. No one in the entire city knew of my plans to send Myrcella to Dorne, except for me and my sister."_
> 
> _"You don't suppose—"_
> 
> _"Don't even think about going there, old man. If you think Myrcella would betray my trust like that, then you're sadly mistaken."_
> 
> _"No! Never! It's a falsehood. I swear it. It wasn't me," the Grand Maester continued to deny the accusations. "Ah, Varys. It was Varys the Spider."_
> 
> _"The Master of Whisperers is one of many things, but even he knows it'd be a very foolish mistake to cross me. He knows his place. You, on the other hand, well…"_
> 
> _Pycelle began stuttering. "No, no, Your Grace! Y-you c-c-can't… I mean, I-I-I…"_
> 
> _"ENOUGH!"_
> 
> _The room fell silent. Grand Maester Pycelle looked like he was about to soil himself when Daveth spoke calmly and in control of the situation._
> 
> _"Am I the only one here to see through this whole façade?" says Daveth. "Is it possible that so many could be so stupid for so long?"_
> 
> _The look on Pycelle's face changed. No longer cowering, but rather choosing to reveal his true colors instead now that the Grand Maester has been exposed._
> 
> _"You really are your grandfather's protégé," said Pycelle calmly, chuckling to himself as he got up from his bed, standing tall instead of hunched forward as he always projected. "There are time when I have trouble believing it myself, Your Grace."_
> 
> _"Then why did you turn on me?"_
> 
> _"So many flowers, child. Each of them either wants to grow the tallest, broom the brightest… and one-by-one, sooner or later, they all get plucked if the gardener decides he doesn't like them anymore. I don't want to be the tallest or the brightest. I only want to remain in the garden, until my time comes to return to the dirt."_
> 
> _"Well aren't we rather poetic this morning?" Daveth rolled his eyes in sarcasm. "And yet you still didn't answer my question."_
> 
> _It was obvious the Young Stag was not going to let this matter slide. Pycelle figured he might as well confess since the person standing before him isn't so easily fooled._
> 
> _"Since I convinced the Mad King to open the city gates to your grandfather, I have served the interests in the House of Lannister unfailingly."_
> 
> _"And you know full well that I myself have Lannister blood as I do Baratheon, yet you still misplaced my trust."_
> 
> _"I only did what I did because I thought you were acting against Lannister interests."_
> 
> _Daveth was not amused. "I can have you return to the dirt in the afternoon if you'd like," he threatened._
> 
> _Even that had to have made Pycelle concerned. The King was young, but he already had a fierce reputation and didn't take backstabbing and other treacherous actions lightly._
> 
> _"In the near future," he continued, "you will remember your place. But until that time, consider yourself placed in strict solitary confinement."_
> 
> _Daveth turned to Ser Meryn and Ser Boros. "Have men posted outside the Grand Maester's room. He doesn't get out and nobody gets in, not even mother. Be sure to regularly change cloaks so they don't get influenced."_
> 
> _"At once, Your Grace," they bowed._
> 
> **ooOoo**

Daveth had already apprehended one culprit and sentenced others such as Allar Deem and Ser Ruban Glovelyn to live out the rest of their days at the Wall in permanent exile, forcing them to join the Night's Watch. In response to the swift crackdowns, any whispers were silenced out of fear for their safety. Daveth had neither the time nor the patience for such idle distractions, but he can't govern the realm when plots are being made behind his back; especially since he's fighting a war. Another piece of paper was unveiled, with it faintly showing the sigil of a white falcon on a blue field. But before he looked at it, there was a knock on his door.

***KNOCK, KNOCK!***

"Come in," called Daveth.

The door opened and Sansa Stark entered, wearing a blue dress of fine embroidery, her long hair, smooth as silk had been let down and parted on one side leaving a portion of her neck exposed. Sansa's blue eyes sparkled and every day she looked more beautiful than the last. But Sansa had a concerned look about her; she heard of the war and at least some of the decisions Daveth had to make.

"Your Grace," she curtseyed.

"Ah, Sansa. I wasn't expecting you."

"Am I interrupting?"

"No," he replied. "I have time if you'd like to talk. In fact, I could use a distraction."

Daveth put the papers down and stood up, pouring some wine into his goblet and one into a small cup. He hands her the small one, and Sansa accepts it.

"Is it true?" she asks. "Robb's on his way here?"

"It is. He's marching south with his men to aid us in our bid to end my foolish uncle's rebellion. Some 20,000 strong, I've been told. He's trying to convince Lord Walder Frey to grant the Northern army's crossing."

A brief, awkward silence fell over.

"But your uncle…" Sansa said finally. "Have you… tried to negotiate a peace with him, and―?"

"Don't you think we've tried that already?" Daveth retorted. "I gave Renly one last chance to lay down his arms, and in his moment of sheer stupidity he arrogantly refused."

Sansa was taken aback in surprise.

"Treason is  _treason_ , Sansa. And Renly will be punished accordingly. Stannis will carry out the sentence instead of Ser Ilyn Payne."

"I-I'm sorry, Your Grace," she apologized. "Of course it is. I shouldn't have pried."

Daveth sighed wearily. "No, it's fine. You were only asking."

Sansa put her cup down and placed her hand on Daveth's shoulder, giving a small rub. "What's bothering you?" she beseeches.

"It's nothing."

Sansa wasn't buying it. "Your Grace, please don't shut me out. Let me help you. Please, I beg you in the name of the Mother."

Daveth took her hand off his shoulder. "I said it's  _nothing_ ," he irritatingly repeated.

He moved over to the bed and sat down on the edge and looked rather lost in thought, with Sansa looking at him worriedly. Daveth never acted this way towards her before. She wants to help, but he won't let her. Her instincts tell her that something's definitely bothering her betrothed. Silence filled the room again.

 

"You ever heard of the Greyjoy Rebellion?" Daveth asked.

Sansa looked puzzled. "It was started by Balon Greyjoy, Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke, when he tried to declare independence from the Seven Kingdoms. Theon became my father's ward when it was over."

Daveth didn't look at Sansa, but he did note she at least knew some parts of it. "And did you ever wonder why I've had to do these things? How and why I came to be known as the kind of man I am today?"

Sansa shook her head. After a long moment, Daveth spoke again.

"I was at Lannisport when the Ironborn raided the town ten years ago," he confessed.

Sansa felt her eyes open wide in shock.

"That's how they sustain themselves, don't they?" he continued as he began to feel lightheaded, lost in memory. "By raiding, plundering and pillaging villages and small towns along the western coasts, raping everyone they get their hands on. 'We take what is ours; we pay no price but the iron price,' is how they address it. Before all of that happened, I was but a boy, eight years of age, playing around the harbors with some friends of mine during our family's visit to Casterly Rock. Sons of my father's and grandfather's bannermen, stable boys, squires… Each of us pretended to be sailors, knights, kings. It didn't matter to the rest of us what others thought about us – we were children simply having fun."

Sansa listened as Daveth retold the story.

"But everything changed that day, when the Ironborn came to our shores. I remember watching the entire Lannister fleet burn at anchor and watched as they sank to the bottom of the ocean. I remember the Ironborn disembarking from their ships to sack the town, slaughtering countless men, women and children who tried to flee. Any who tried to fight back were put to the sword; those who couldn't defend themselves were drowned or taken back to the Iron Islands as thralls and salt wives."

In Daveth's mind, faint screams and shouts were heard, fires ravaging the town as swords clash and the Ironborn's cruel, unforgiving laughter were louder than anything else.

"They cornered us in one of the alleys. One of my friends, Connin, was dragged away and had his head held underwater until he stopped struggling. Orwen tried to fight, but was cut down with a single strike. The others… Drannyl, Briden, Rechar, Rodner… they were all either cut down one by one; either by the Ironborn's blades or by drowning. I close my eyes, I still see their faces. At night, I hear their screams in my sleep. That's where they found me."

"W-what happened?" Sansa asked.

Daveth inhaled deeply and exhaled just as sharply, his right hand beginning to tremble.

"They dragged me to the Iron Islands in chains. Pyke, I think. Or was it Great Wyk? Old Wyk? I don't really remember. I'd rather  _not_  remember. But I  _do_  remember… the countless, unspeakable things they did to me while I was their prisoner. I was tortured daily. The Ironborn tried to break me, treated me like I was their own personal plaything. Their property! How can you expect to be the same person after that? They beat me, they starved me, they tried to drown me… and no matter how many times I tried to escape, they always caught me. 'You're gonna make us a fine trophy,' they said to me. 'A tribute to satisfy the Drowned God.' That's where Ser Barristan found me. He cut them all down before they had a chance to draw their swords and brought me back to the capital once Balon Greyjoy surrendered and bent the knee."

Daveth found himself gradually becoming tired, staring at his feet as he clenched his fists in a rather tight grip.

"My dearest one," Sansa spoke softly, her voice filled with hurt and sympathy. "I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell the King?"

"Father…?" Daveth muttered quietly, a violent shiver taking him. "You think my own father even cared enough to consider checking on me to see if I was all right? 'He won't be a boy forever,' he told mother. 'It's time he learned what it means to be a man.' I took it upon myself from the point on that I would create a new world, one where families wouldn't have to mourn the loss of a son, daughter, friend or spouse. I would crush any who meant to harm them – whether they are Ironborn, Targaryen, Dothraki… even my own flesh and blood. Everything I've said, everything I've done… all of it was so to ensure that no one have to experience what I did so young. When Jon Arryn died, I renewed my pledge. And I intend to keep it."

Sansa truly had no words to describe the horrors of the story Daveth had just told her; she just held her arms out and brought her betrothed into a warm embrace, holding him close against her bosom. A gentle touch and a tender heart, Sansa poured everything she had into that hug – a notion that was foreign to Daveth Baratheon when they first met.

"My sweet King," she hushed. "My heart breaks at seeing you like this. But you mustn't try to do too much on your own. I love you. So please… let me help you."

Daveth said nothing as he felt his eyes close, wrapping his arms around Sansa's waist.

"Sansa…" he whispered as sleep soon took him.

* * *

**Aboard the _Fury_ , somewhere in the Narrow Sea…**

* * *

 

On board the flagship of Lord Stannis Baratheon's fleet, the  _Fury_  sailed in open waters – where Stannis himself stands on the deck with his first mate and brother-in-law Ser Imry Florent standing alongside him. After sending him off, Ser Davos Seaworth comes on deck to hand Stannis a message.

"A raven arrived from King's Landing a few nights ago," Davos informed him.

Stannis opened the letter and read its content:

> _"The proper course is clear: Eliminate the traitorous rebel Renly Baratheon, and send us his head as proof. Once you have accomplished your task, move to intercept the Redwyne Fleet."_

Stannis frowned and placed the letter into his pocket, staring across the Narrow Sea as the moonlight glistened across the ocean. "Do your knucklebones bring you luck?" he asked.

Davos took the small silk pouch he kept wrapped around his neck, feeling it with his right hand as the sound of bones clattering against each other was slightly heard. The Onion Knight had remembered four of the fingers on his left hand being shortened at the first joint as punishment for his years of criminal activity as a smuggler. Now Davos wears them around his neck as both a lucky charm and a reminder of who he was once.

"Well, life's been good since you hacked them off, my lord," Davos answered. "And it's four less fingernails to clean."

"Fewer."

"Pardon?"

"Four  _fewer_  fingernails to clean. Never understood why you had to wear them."

"It reminds me of where I come from and where I am now. It reminds me of your justice. It was an honest punishment, and you were good with the cleaver."

"You were a hero and a smuggler," Stannis countered. "A good act does not wash out the bad, nor a bad the good."

"A lesson I've been trying to teach my son," mused Davos.

"Does he listen?"

"To me? Gods, no. But if the red woman told him to leap from a crow's nest―"

"―she has a name. I trust you've not forgotten your old smuggler's tricks?"

Now that appeared to catch Davos off-guard. He stopped smuggling since Stannis made him a hedge knight and granted him a track of land to settle on.

"I've lived within the law for over 17 years―" Davos tried to remind him.

"―I want you to be a smuggler this time," Stannis interrupted.

Davos knew he wasn't going to persuade his liege lord otherwise, so he just simply nodded at the request.

"Any shore, any night. What am I bringing ashore?"

"The red woman."

Melisandre? Davos was actually going to smuggle the red priestess Melisandre ashore? What is Stannis thinking? What is he up to? Has he not forgotten of the words that come spilling out of her mouth or what she does to non-believers?

"No one must know what you do, and we will never speak of this again."

"I am true to my lord and always will be," Davos conceded but still tried suggesting something else, "but surely there are other ways, cleaner ways."

"Cleaner ways don't win wars."

"But what about the King?"

Stannis stared off into the distance. "I will handle my Nephew when the time comes, Ser Davos. If I disappoint, he'll let me know about it. If I succeed, he wouldn't care so long as it's done."

The Onion Knight said nothing and instead moved to take a small boat to fetch Melisandre. He didn't like the feeling that took hold in his gut, but did as he was told anyway.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

* * *

Nightfall has covered the landscape. But the moonlight shone to reveal the dead bodies of men and horses littering the surrounding area. In the deepest areas of the Riverlands was a rather large man, wielding a mighty greatsword as he continued hacking away at any survivors in a fit of rage.

"No! No! Please…!"

***HACK!***

***STAB!***

***SLASH!***

***THRUST!***

***HACK!***

***CHOP!***

Once he finished "venting his frustrations", the abnormally large man set off in search of newer targets. Unbeknownst to him, he was being followed by a small group.

"The Mountain still lives…" one of them mentions.

"Should we pursue?" asks another.

Their leader steps forward, a scarred, balding man with reddish hair and a patch covering his right eye. "Not yet. We'll use this moment to seek out new recruits before we continue chasing the Mountain. But remember…"

All eyes turned to look at their leader as he steps forward and into the light, revealing to be none other than Lord Beric Dondarrion.

"No matter whose cloak the Mountain wears: Lannister, Stark, Baratheon, all men like him prey on the weak, and the Brotherhood Without Banners will hunt him down."

They retreated back to their hidden layer under cover of darkness, making plans to make their move.

"Lord of Light..." Beric prayed silently, "come to us in our darkness. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

With the war going on, how will the Brotherhood Without Banners get involved throughout the regions across Westeros? What is their true motive? And what will it entail when the war is brought to an end?


	23. The Stage Has Been Set

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Arya Stark had been training by herself near the balcony; a year had passed since Syrio Forel returned to Braavos once he's been paid for tutoring the 12-year-old Stark girl. She moved and danced around, wielding her blade Needle with her left hand, spinning and twirling it in a fluid motion. Being a water dancer had apparently the thing Arya had excelled at. She seemed to mature since then, but Arya still remained adamant in wanting to find her own destiny instead of it being made for her. Balancing on her tiptoes for hours at a time, chasing cats around to improve her agility and reflexes… Arya had grown into fiercer than she had before.

***SWISH!***

***SWOON!***

***SLASH!***

***THRUST!***

"Left, right, right," Arya huffed, concentrating as she thrusted and spun. "Right, down, left, right, up, down, left."

***THRUST!***

***SWISH!***

***SLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***THRUST!***

She was venting her frustrations in her movements. War was going on around her, and heard rumors of a massive fleet on its way to the capital. Even though Arya couldn't care less about what happens to those she hates, she remembered her sister Sansa and her father Eddard. Arya couldn't bring herself to hate them; she doesn't get along with Sansa, but Arya still didn't wish anything bad to happen to her. She loves her father, even though she had yearned for Eddard to let her be the person Arya knows she is. Arya had even wanted to at least help her soon-to-be brother-in-law in any way possible despite any differences they had, but her father Eddard expressively forbade his youngest daughter from being actively involved in the defense of King's Landing in any way possible. She had protested at being sidelined, but her father reminded her that Arya was still just a child;  _his_  child. She didn't want to disobey her father, but Arya reluctantly did as she was told. She knew it was because her father loved her and her sister, but still didn't like sitting around doing nothing.

***THRUST!***

***SWIPE!***

***SWISH!***

"Right, left, right," she panted. "Left, down, right, up, left, right, up, down…"

***THRUST!***

Arya thrusted forward and stabbed the training dummy in front of her, piercing it in the center of the chest. Panting heavily, Arya pulled back and grabbed a rag to wipe the sweat from her brow. Soon as she put Needle down, Arya's mind slowly began to drift away. In her daydreaming, Arya dreamt about being like the warrior-queen Nymeria of the Rhoynar or a skinchanger with the ability to morph into a direwolf at will. She missed Nymeria terribly, having to send her away to keep her safe from the Lannisters for mauling Joffrey's arm at the Trident nearly a year ago. She had heard gossips of a large wolf leading a pack around the Gods Eye that has no fear of men, though she had at least hoped, Arya begrudgingly conceded that she might not see her old direwolf again.

***KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!***

"Go away!" Arya shouted at the door.

"Arya, open the door. We need to talk," a voice called out.

_'Father!'_  she recognized.

Arya crossed the room and opened the door for her father. Eddard seemed more exhausted and tired, making the lines in his face more visible to show his age.

"May I come in?"

Arya nodded, and then stepped aside – allowing Eddard entry.

"You've been practicing?"

"Every day."

After a while, Eddard took notice how labored Arya's breathing was and how her hands slightly shook. "You have a wildness in you, child. 'The wolf blood,' your grandfather used to call it. Your aunt Lyanna had a touch of it, and my brother Brandon more than a touch. It brought them both to an early grave."

Arya heard sadness in his voice; he did not often speak of his father, or of the brother and sister who had died before she was born.

"Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord Father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her."

"Aunt Lyanna was beautiful, wasn't she?"

Eddard nodded. "She was beautiful and willful, and dead before her time. Do you know the first thing about sword fighting?"

"Jon once told me to 'stick them with the pointy end.' But Syrio also told me that all men are made of water, and if you pierce them then the water leaks out."

"That  _is_  the essence of it, I suppose," Eddard snorted back laughter.

Arya perched on the edge of her bed, sitting alongside her father. "Why can't I help?" she asked. "I've gotten better—"

"Arya, my answer is still  _no_ ," Eddard shook his head. "You are my daughter, and I will not allow any harm to come to you. I understand you want to help, but you haven't been to war as I have. Twice I've had to fight in wars, and this one is no different. You are too young to be burned with all my cares."

She hugged her knees against her chest, suddenly afraid.

"Let me tell you something about wolves, child. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. Summer is the time for squabbles. In winter, we must protect one another, keep each other warm, share our strengths. So if you must hate, Arya, hate those who would truly do us harm. Septa Mordane is a good woman, Daveth is to be your brother by law, and Sansa… Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you… and I need both of you, gods help me."

He sounded so tired that it made Arya sad. "I don't hate Sansa," she told him. "Not truly." It was only half a lie.

"I do not mean to frighten you, but neither will I lie to you. We're at war now. We have enemies who mean us ill. We cannot fight a war among ourselves. This willfulness of yours, the running off, the angry words, the disobedience… at home, these were only the summer games of a child. Here and now, with winter soon upon us, that is a different matter."

"I understand, father," Arya vowed. She had never loved him so much as she did in that instant. "I can be strong too. I can be as strong as Robb."

_'Robb…'_  thought Eddard.

Last he heard of his eldest son and heir, King Daveth I reported to Lord Hand Eddard that Robb and his troops have successfully crossed the Twins with Lord Walder Frey's levies in tow; they will soon be arriving at Riverrun to resupply before marching towards Harrenhal. However, it seems Robb's expected arrival might be a bit delayed once word arrived that his maternal grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, was bedridden due to a prolonged serious illness. The day-to-day basis of ruling both Riverrun and the Riverlands was passed on to his son and heir Edmure Tully.

"He's on his way here," he confessed.

Arya's eyes widened in surprised. "What?"

"The King asked me to pass word to Robb; he's raised our banners to aid us in ending this war. He'll be here soon."

"Robb's… coming?" Arya couldn't believe what she heard, but at the same time a smile crept upon her face. She was going to see her brother again after over a year.

Before any more could be said, a royal steward entered the room unannounced.

"Beg your pardon, my Lord Hand," he said, "but I'm afraid His Grace has requested your presence in the throne room."

"Did he say why?"

"He wouldn't say, my Lord Hand. All I know is he couldn't summon you for anything unless it was absolutely important. Here," the steward said as he handed Eddard a letter.

It had to be about the war. And what of this letter? Eddard opened it and recognized the sigil of the Kingsguard waxed onto it.

"Leave us," he commanded. "Inform His Grace that I'll be on my way shortly."

"At once, my Lord Hand," the steward obeyed and exited the room.

Eddard took a few moments to open the letter and read its content. When he was finished, his face looked rather grim and he turned to Arya.

"Find your sister," he told his daughter. "Have her brought here."

"Father?" asked Arya.

" _Now_ ," Eddard's voice was sharp with impatience.

Arya felt startled for a moment that left her speechless. Something must be seriously wrong if he raised his voice to her like that. Not wanting to waste any more time, Arya ran off to find Sansa. Eddard looked at the paper yet again, recognizing the handwriting belonging to Ser Barristan Selmy.

"He's been caught…"

* * *

**At the Lannister main camp near the Westerland-Reach border…**

* * *

"They have my son," Tywin Lannister said.

Over the past several days, Lannister troops had been fighting Reachmen soldiers day and night. Tyrion, along with several of the hill tribesmen, had taken part in a few skirmishes as well – though the Imp was accidently knocked unconscious by the swinging of Shagga's club before even setting foot on the battlefield. The Lannisters won a series of victories en route to Storm's End, defeating capable soldiers from the rebel Tyrells and Renly Baratheon's forces. However, not long after, word reached Lord Tywin that his son Ser Jaime Lannister, who had been laying siege to Highgarden with 30,000 men, was ambushed and captured by Lord Randyll Tarly and his men, scattering the Kingslayer's armies and forcing them to retreat. Once the rebels heard they captured the infamous Kingslayer, morale surged and left to assemble on the island of Tarth to sail to King's Landing for their last-ditch, desperate attempt to end the war in their favor.

The generals gathered at the Lannister war camp were silent when Tywin read the scout's report. Tyrion took a sip of wine and said not a word, thinking of Jaime. When he lifted his arm, pain shot through his elbow, reminding him of his own brief, first taste of battle. He loved his brother, but he would not have wanted to be with him in the northern Reach for all the gold in Casterly Rock.

"It seems we've sorely underestimated the military prowess and experience of Lord Randyll Tarly," Tyrion said. "The King was wise to warn us about him."

"And yet Ser Jaime didn't appear to take His Grace's warnings seriously," replied Ser Harys Swyft. "What madness made him decide to split his men into three separate directions? Surely he knew how vulnerable that would leave them?"

_'Better than you, you chinless craven,'_  Tyrion thought.

Jaime might have lost Highgarden, but it angered him to hear his brother slandered by the likes of Swyft, a shameless lickspittle whose greatest accomplishment was marrying his equally chinless daughter to Ser Kevan, and thereby attaching himself to the Lannisters.

"I've heard his men were already set on marching back to the capital," chimed in Lord Leo Lefford.

Ser Addam Marbrand joined in. "Is it true about Renly's fleet?"

Lord Tywin wove his fingers together under his chin. Only his eyes moved as he listened. His bristling golden side-whiskers framed a face so still it might have been a mask, but Tyrion could see tiny beads of sweat dappling his father's head.

"The pretender Renly Baratheon is said to be amassing the bulk of his remaining forces on Tarth, some 40,000 men," Ser Kevan Lannister informed. "Our scouts tell us that he intends to take them aboard the Redwyne Fleet to lay siege to King's Landing under the command of Lord Paxter Redwyne and Ser Loras Tyrell. Jaime captured, his armies scattered. It's a catastrophe. Perhaps we should sue for peace."

_'Peace?'_  Tyrion swirled his wine thoughtfully, taking a deep breath and hurled his empty cup to the floor.

***SHATTER!***

Nearly everyone in the room turned to look at Tyrion.

" _There's_  your peace. Renly saw it as a chance for payback for having to endure so many humiliating defeats. You'll have an easier time drinking from that cup than you will convince him to make peace now. Renly's been getting more and more desperate – and he's bound to make one last mistake in the end."

"I'm told the Tyrells are considering pulling out of the war."

"And by doing so they would be leaving Renly Baratheon without any allies to call upon," Ser Addam realized. "Yes, I see. We should seize the opportunity and strike now while we still have the chance."

"No," Leo shook his head. "The first order of business is ransoming Ser Jaime."

"First we must return to Casterly Rock to raise—"

"THEY HAVE MY SON!" roared Tywin, his voice cutting through the babble like a sword through suet. "Get out. All of you."

Ever the soul of obedience, Tyrion rose to depart with the rest, but his father gave him a look.

"Not you."

Tyrion eased himself back onto the bench, startled into speechlessness. Reaching for a cup, his movements ceased when Tywin grabbed the pitcher. His father offered his dwarfish son a cup whilst pouring one for himself. Now Tyrion  _was_  surprised.

Lord Tywin seated himself. "You were right about the Young Stag's determination. The Baratheons are rather headstrong in pursuing their goals, refusing to back down once their minds are made up…" His hand curled into a fist. "He was right about this, though: Madness; madness and stupidity are spreading like a plague."

"Daveth's not a boy anymore. And I seem to recall he's a very fast learner once he puts his mind to something."

His father gave him a sharp look. "I suppose we ought to be grateful that my grandson has Lannister blood running through his veins to help temper the famous Baratheon rage. Our position remains quite strong thanks to our influence at court, you know."

"And yet he's called on us and those loyal to him to help defend the Red Keep against the Redwyne Fleet. He seems to know where the rebels will land, where they'll go, and determining their numbers. If I know my nephew right, which I do, Daveth knows his limits. He knows he's outnumbered and will most likely put up a strong defense long enough to hold the city until reinforcements arrive. Starks, Lannisters, Tullys… the Oathkeeper always gets what he wants in the end."

"Yes, he does. I always thought you were a stunted fool. Perhaps I was wrong."

"Half wrong. What of Stannis? He's Robert's younger brother, older than Renly. How does he feel about Renly's claim?"

"Stannis spent the first year building ships, hiring sellswords since leaving King's Landing," he gave an irritated shrug. "Yet he remains mindful of his duties and sided with Daveth, granting us the necessary naval power to rival the Redwyne Fleet."

"Yet if we abandon our position here, our backside will be left exposed to the Tyrells."

"The Tyrells do not concern me, nor do I have any intention of exposing our weak spots. Lord Mace doesn't have a mind for warfare, but at least we gave him a moment of pause. If enough pressure is applied, the Lord of Highgarden will sue for peace at the behest of the Queen of Thrones herself; which shouldn't come as a surprise given how rules the Reach from the shadows. Ser Addam and his men will guard our rear flanks should the rebels begin the pursuit. The rest of us will make for Harrenhal to rendezvous with the Stark vanguard in the morning."

_'Seven hells,'_  Tyrion swore thoughtfully.

He knew that the Lannisters and Starks are maintaining a truce, albeit a hostile if not uneasy one after the Oathkeeper himself intervened on Tyrion's behalf when the Imp was taken by Lord Eddard's wife Lady Catelyn Stark and was imprisoned at the Eyrie for over a year for allegedly poisoning Lord Jon Arryn and attempting to murder Catelyn's young son Bran. No doubt the tensions would increasingly rise when Stark and Lannister forces met face-to-face, and this time Daveth couldn't intervene again this time.

"Your savages might relish a bit of rapine," Tywin continued. "Tell them they may ride with Vargo Hoat and plunder the neighboring villages in the Stormlands as they like—goods, stock, women, they may take what they want and burn the rest."

"Telling Shagga and Timett how to pillage is like telling a rooster how to crow," Tyrion commented, "but I should prefer to keep them with me."

Uncouth and unruly they might be, yet the wildlings were his, and he trusted them more than any of his father's men. He was not about to hand them over.

"Then you had best learn to control them. I will not have the city plundered."

"The city? What city?"

"King's Landing. And you will be going along with them."

"To do what?"

"Advise the King, of course," his father said curtly.

Tyrion hooted with laughter. "My sweet sister might have a word or two to say about that!"

"Let Cersei protest all she likes, she knows that she cannot curb her son. You will help Daveth and Ned Stark bring his mother and those false jackanapes on the council to heel, if needs be. And if you get so much as a whiff of treason from any of the rest – Baelish, Varys, Pycelle…"

"Heads, spikes, walls," Tyrion finished; he knew.

"I see Daveth was not the only one to take a few lessons from me."

"More than you know, father. But why not my uncle? Why not anyone? Why me?"

"You're my son."

Tyrion sat there, silent and still. He wasn't sure if it was either a compliment, an acknowledgment to the Imp's contributions as a Lannister, or merely an insult. Either way, the Imp said nothing as the shards of the broken cup crunched beneath his father's heels as Lord Tywin crossed the room.

"Oh, and one more thing," he said. "You will not take that new whore of yours to court. Do you understand?"

Tyrion opened his mouth to say something, but froze on the spot. During his time in the Lannister camps, Tyrion became acquainted with a young woman from the Free City of Lorath named Shae, who arrived as a camp-follower with the Lannister army. Bronn, a sellsword in service of Tyrion, found Shae as per the Imp's request. Tyrion was charmed by the prostitute immediately when he first saw her. What began as a brief customer/employer affair they grew to love one another. Finally when Tywin left with most of his men to Harrenhal, Tyrion returned to his camp to spend one more night with Shae before leaving to return to King's Landing. Shae murmured in the tent sleepily and rolled toward Tyrion when he laid down on the featherbed. He slid his hand under the blanket and cupped a soft breast, and her eyes opened.

"My lord," Shae greeted with a drowsy smile.

When he felt Shae's nipple stiffen, Tyrion kissed her.

"I have a mind to take you to King's Landing, sweetling," he whispered.

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

* * *

"Are you afraid, Onion Knight?" Melisandre asks Davos, who remains busy with rowing both him and her ashore to a hidden cave near the Stormlands.

"Someone once told me the night is dark and full of terrors," replied Davos.

"You've carried more unpleasant cargo in your time. Are you a good man, Ser Davos Seaworth?"

"I'd say my parts are mixed, my lady. Good and bad."

"If half an onion is black with rot, it's a rotten onion. A man is good or he is evil."

"And which are you?"

" _Oh, good,_ " Melisandre answers. "I'm a knight myself of sorts, a champion of light and life."

Davos rolled his eyes. "Well, that must be very nice for you," he said sarcastically.

The small boat carrying the two docks on the shoreline, with Davos pulling the boat to prevent it from being carried away by the tides – with only his lantern as a necessary tool in lighting the way as Melisandre lowers her hood.

"Do you love your wife?" she asks.

Davos began feeling uncomfortable. "I do."

"Yet you have known other women."

"Don't talk about my wife."

"I'm not. I'm talking about other women. Like me, Ser Davos. You want me. You want to see what's beneath this robe. And you will."

Both continued to venture into the cave, the end of it being sealed with a number of bars as dripping noises from within became more apparent with every step inward. Davos shrugged at his new surroundings.

"Strange that this Lord of Light asks you to work in the shadows."

"Shadows cannot live in the dark, Ser Davos. They are servants of light, the children of fire. And the brighter the flame, the darker they are."

Davos felt a strange feeling beginning to form in the pit of his stomach as he hung the lantern onto the nearest hook to bring light into the cave. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead; instincts told Davos that something didn't feel right. Unnatural, it would seem.

"These weren't here before. They've barred the passage."

"They can't bar our passage," Melisandre chuckled as she begins disrobing.

Undoing the final strings, Melisandre tosses aside the red robe – revealing her enlarged swollen stomach, showing Davos that she is very pregnant and ready to give birth.

"Gods protect us," Davos gasped in horror about what was to happen next.

"There's only one God, Ser Davos, and he only protects those who serve him."

Melisandre sat on the ground as the lantern suddenly burned brighter and filled the darkened caves quickly, scaring Davos in the process. She bathed in the light and her stomach began to move, her muscles tensing up and pushing downwards.

***GASPS!***

***LAUGH, GASPS!***

***MOANING!***

***MOANS!***

***SCREAMING!***

Melisandre fell into labor and pressed her chin down into her chest, her muscles repeatedly contracting to give birth. Davos watched on in horror as he soon saw a shadow expelling itself from Melisandre's body; it took the form of a hand and slowly pulled itself out. Before long, the shadow took the form and physique of a man. However, it was pure darkness. A Shadow demon had taken its form. A magical creature or demon of darkness believed to be created by the Lord of Light, its worshipers and servants employ Shadows to undertake dangerous missions on their behalf.

The exhausted red priestess smiled as she saw the creature both she and Stannis made months ago appear in front of her before it vanished to take out its assigned target. Davos, on the other hand, shook and trembled.

_'If this is what Lord Stannis believes in…'_  thought Davos.  _'Then that means we're all doomed. I… I have to warn the King!'_


	24. The Dealmaker

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Lord Hand Eddard Stark had been counseling King Daveth I on recent occurrences, such as the capture of his uncle Jaime, the food shortages and the Redwyne Fleet's approach to the capital. The elder statesman implored Daveth to heed his advice on military matters, for Eddard was a veteran of two wars and his experience would no doubt prove useful. Other councilors in attendance included Lord Petyr Baelish and Varys. Even his own mother Queen Mother Cersei Lannister was allowed to attend on the condition she keeps Joffrey in line. Daveth listened to the Hand of the King's advice, taking into consideration what needed to be done – but even then the Young Stag often took matters into his own hands to fill in the gaps in preparations for a what-if scenario.

Daveth's brother Joffrey was adamant in being in attendance with Sandor Clegane; he claims to be learning, but the elder Baratheon easily saw through the younger's lie. In truth, Joffrey appeared incredibly bored and not paying attention to what was being said. For months, Daveth had tried to tutor Joffrey on learning to rule and every time Joffrey did not pay attention served only to severely test the limits to Daveth's patience and frustrating him. This would be Joffrey's last chance; otherwise Daveth will permanently deem him a lost cause and redirect his attention towards their youngest brother Tommen instead.

"And these reports detail the city's granaries?" Daveth asked.

Eddard nodded. "They are, Your Grace. Based on how many troops are stationed in the garrison and the growing number of refugees fleeing the war, our food supplies from the Riverlands will eventually run out in two or three months. With the rebel fleet on its way, I fear things will only get worse."

"Things always get worse before they get better, Lord Stark. What are our options?"

Petyr chimed in. "I can have the City Watch close the gates, stop the gradual flow of refugees from pouring in."

"You would be so cruel as to leave these people out to die, Lord Baelish?" Eddard said repulsively.

"Think about it, my Lord Hand. We have nowhere to house them, the Redwyne Fleet is already on its way here, and if we continue to let more people in then our soldiers stationed here will be too weak to defend the city once the last of our supplies run out."

"An unfortunate situation," spoke Varys, "but sometimes during a crisis drastic measures must be taken into consideration to prevent the many from falling from starvation or war."

"Does Janos Slynt not command the City Watch, my son?" Cersei implores. "Is he not charged with keeping the king's peace? To keep order?"

"He does, mother. 2,000 Watchmen have been posted throughout several key sections of King's Landing, and the patrols have—" He stopped and noticed Joffrey was once again not paying attention, rather instead looking bored and ready to fall asleep at any moment. "JOFFREY! ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?!" he yelled.

The seemed to bring Joffrey's mind back to reality. "Y-yeah, yeah! The thing with the thing…" he tried to defend himself, but Daveth groaned in utter irritation and annoyance. He knew Joffrey was lying.

"Then why don't you tell me? So I know you know."

He was now putting Joffrey's feet to the fire, and with his back pressed against the wall, the Illborn found all eyes locked onto him.

"Stop it now, both of you," Cersei intervened. "We already have enough on today's agenda, and I will not afford you two to come to blows."

Daveth redirected his attention towards Cersei. "When I invited you and Joffrey to attend today's council meeting, you gave me your word that my brother would act the part. Learn what it means to rule. And yet here Joffrey stands not even grasping the gravity of our situation."

"I'm sure if you simply give him a chance—"

"I gave him plenty of chances at your behest, mother, and every time he choose to neglect his duties. If he cannot do as he is told, then Joffrey has no place here."

Both Cersei and Daveth began staring each other down. The two had grown further distant ever since Myrcella's betrothal to the Martells of Dorne was announced and Jaime's capture by the Tyrell forces. A tense moment hung over the chamber.

"Perhaps we should return to the matters at hand?" Eddard intervened.

Daveth calmed himself immediately. "Of course, Lord Stark."

"Several Watchmen are patrolling areas vital to the city. The scouts inform us that reinforcements are said to be gathering at the ruins of Harrenhal and the castle of Riverrun to resupply before planning their next move. Your Grace, I fear it will take some time before your grandfather's men along with the Northern vanguard might be delayed."

"Then we're on our own for now."

Eddard noticed how quiet Daveth's been lately. "Daveth, your father and I fought to overthrow the Mad King eighteen years ago. We fought to put down Balon Greyjoy's rebellion. Even though some of the odds were against us, we still won in the end. The people follow your lead now. Whatever decision you make, your council will help."

Petyr and Varys nodded in agreement. Cersei and Joffrey, meanwhile, said nothing.

"Then let's begin preparations for the city's defense," sighed Daveth. "We'll need to have our garrison ready for the Redwyne Fleet's arrival—"

His thoughts were interrupted.

"Beloved nephew!"

   

Daveth's concentration was broken as the assembled councilors turned in surprise to see Tyrion Lannister strolling into the room with Bronn and the hill tribesmen accompanying him. Eddard's face turned to stone when he saw the Imp.

 _'What's he doing here?'_  the Stark patriarch thought. Last he heard Tyrion spent a year imprisoned at the Eyrie.

"You," Cersei said in a tone that was equal parts disbelief and distaste.

Tyrion shrugged. "I can see where Joffrey learned his courtesies," he said as he looked at his other nephews. "My word! Look at how much you've grown, Daveth. Sorry I missed your eighteenth nameday. I'm sure I can find something to make it up to you. And you, oh, Tommen! You're going to be bigger than the Hound, but much better looking."

"Can't imagine why," Bronn smiles wryly.

Tommen smiled as Sandor Clegane said nothing, but sent a small glare at Tyrion.

"You sure took your own sweet time returning to the capital, uncle," Daveth added.

"We heard you were dead," Joffrey said in an indifferent tone.

"And yet here I stand," Tyrion replied in the same tone, but perhaps more sarcastically. He looked around and noticed someone else was missing. "Where's Myrcella?"

Daveth glanced at Cersei, who frowned at the mere mention of her daughter.

"I arranged a match for her with the Martells of Dorne. Myrcella will depart for Sunspear within the fortnight," Daveth informed.

Tyrion blinked in surprise. "Ah. I see," he spoke with a hint of sadness. "I suppose it's all in a day's work as sovereign. One more reason to help take some stress off your shoulders, nephew."

"What do you mean?" Eddard said.

"Yes, by all means, tell us why you of all people are here?" Cersei demanded.

Tyrion poured himself a cup of wine. "I believe that the King's advisors are welcomed at all Small Council meetings," he answered.

Almost everyone in attendance, even Daveth himself, looked confused. Tyrion pulled a scroll from his pocket and handed it to Varys. The eunuch took the letter and turned it in his delicate powdered hands.

"How kind of Lord Tywin. And his scaling wax is such a lovely shade of gold," Varys said as he broke the wax and unrolled the parchment. "Your father has named Lord Tyrion to serve as one of the King's principal advisors while he fights—"

"OUT! All of you out!" Cersei yelled, finally unable to contain her anger any longer.

"Your Grace—!" Eddard raised his voice, but was waived off by Daveth.

"It's all right, Lord Stark. We can continue this discussion at another time."

Eddard did not approve, but instructed the councilors to vacate the premises until whatever occurs between the royal family is resolved. After they left, Cersei marched next to the table as she began staring down Tyrion.

"I would like to know how you tricked father into this."

"If I were capable of tricking father, I'd be Emperor of the world by now," Tyrion replied.

"Has grandfather lost his senses? Or did you forge this letter?" Joffrey accused with mounting annoyance. "I ought to have you thrown into a dungeon, you little monster!"

"You will do no such thing, Illborn," Daveth retorted dismissively. "Not while I rule."

Joffrey cast an angry glance at Daveth, who continues to ignore him as he extends his hand to Tyrion. The Imp hands the Young Stag the letter Varys was reading. As Daveth examined the letter, he murmured.

"This does appear to be grandfather's handwriting…"

"Daveth!" shouted Cersei.

He raised his hand to silence her.

"You've brought this on yourself, sister," Tyrion said.

That comment made Cersei furious. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've done nothing."

"On the contrary. Father seems to have taken a dislike to the Small Council, says he was thinking how their heads might look on the wall," Tyrion said before turning to look at Daveth. "Nephew, are you certain of their loyalty? Do you trust them?"

"That depends on who's worthy enough to earn it. We're at war, uncle. I cannot afford to have anyone give me some very bad counsel. It's a poison I refuse to swallow."

"A King should do whatever he likes," Joffrey pointed out. "Not spend his days playing around and looking at maps."

Daveth cast a sharp glare at Joffrey. "The Mad King Aerys Targaryen did whatever he liked as well, and look what happened to him. I'm sure you can ask Uncle Jaime about it once he's back in our custody."

Cersei looked very unhappy as her two eldest sons resumed arguing despite her attempts to keep them placated and end the hostilities between them, yet glanced away.

"Nephew, what are your plans for this war?"

Daveth looked at Tyrion. "Currently we're getting ourselves ready for the approaching Redwyne Fleet, but with Jaime captured… I believe I might have a solution to bring him back."

Cersei returned her attention towards Daveth. What was he talking about? A plan? What did it entail? Will it work?

"My contacts report that a fraction of the rebel forces are being led by Ser Loras Tyrell. As I'm sure you are well-aware, Loras is the heir to Highgarden and all lands of the Reach. If we manage to capture him, we can force Lord Mace Tyrell to withdraw his support for Renly and return Jaime to our custody, a trade of sorts. But to do that, we'll have to wait for the Knight of the Flowers to come to us."

Cersei's eyes narrowed. "If you believe I'd ever allow you to take part in the battle, you're sick with fever."

"Well guess what, mother? It's not your decision to make. And if you listen to what I say, we  _might_  get Uncle Jaime back in one piece."

Tyrion watched in amusement as he watched Daveth bearing his teeth and claws. "Nephew…"

"Yes, yes, Uncle Tyrion. I give my consent," he said. "You are hereby instructed to serve as one of my principal advisors until this war is brought to an end."

Tyrion smirked in triumphant, while Cersei looked on in disgust. In her rage, she and Joffrey stood from their seats and stormed out of the room. Tommen reluctantly followed his mother and brother. Alone, Tyrion sat next to Daveth.

"I'm glad you're here…" spoke Daveth.

Tyrion placed a small hand on Daveth's arm. "As am I, nephew. I haven't forgotten what you did to secure my freedom at the Vale. A Lannister always pays his debts, and I will find a way to repay you for this."

"Just try not to make a habit of this," he asked, slowly massaging his temples in a circular motion. "I had to call in a lot of favors to keep the Starks and Lannisters from tearing each other and the Riverlands apart. Grandfather… was not pleased. It took all I had to placate him."

"I imagine it wasn't easy, but nothing ever is. Even so, I think I might be able to help you with some things."

"How?"

"Your grandfather asked me to advise you, and I imagine you've already got your hands full with enough problems."

"There is one thing…" Daveth suggested. "A few of my contacts in the city are stretched thin. And I suspect that there is a certain element who continues to plot behind my back. I need more eyes and ears on the ground."

"I'm sure I can find a way to manage that."

Tyrion got off his seat to leave.

"One more thing…"

Tyrion stopped mid-way to look at Daveth. "Yes, nephew?"

Daveth, now rising from his seat, had a serious look in his eyes. "Send for Littlefinger. I have something to discuss with him."

* * *

**At one of the Tarly's war camps…**

* * *

 

Lord Randyll Tarly gives orders to his men and walks to the cage holding Jaime Lannister. The infamous Kingslayer is tied to a wooden pole, a good distance from the walls of his cage. Mud and bruises covered his face and his leather clothes were worn slightly. His time in captivity had dirtied his long hair (now some hairs are starting to turn grey) and his bead grew out and was now shaggy as he had not having been allowed a razor to trim it. His charm was still apparent, however, and Jaime resembled a magnificent yellow beast – his green eyes glowing brightly in the night.

"Lord Tarly," Jaime greeted, "strange to find you here of all places. I half expected to be left in one castle or another for safekeeping, but you have your men drag me wherever you go. Have you grown fond of me? Is that it? I've never seen you with your wife."

Randyll stood tall and firm, wearing chainmail and boiled leather with a breastplate of grey steel donning a red archer on a green field. He carried his ancestral Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane across his back in a jeweled scabbard. A lean and balding man with a short, bristly grey beard, Randyll prized courage and martial prowess over all else. A fierce, ruthless warrior and a highly effective general, Randyll defeated Robert Baratheon during the rebellion and  _now_  bested Jaime Lannister as well.

"Who I spend my days with doesn't concern you, Ser Jaime," Randyll said gruffly.

"And yet you apparently don't seem rather concerned about what might happen once the legendary Oathkeeper sets one of his plans in motion?"

"I'm a Tarly. That name means something. We lead our armies wherever we go."

"You were the only man to defeat Robert Baratheon in battle. Not even Prince Rhaegar Targaryen could accomplish such a feat."

Randyll stood firm. "I know what games you're playing at, and I assure you I will not bend or break as easily as you think. I swore an oath to House Tyrell—"

"—you swore allegiance to the Crown as well, Lord Tarly," he corrected. "So it appears your loyalties are somewhat… flexible, to say the least. Say what you will about loyalties, but it doesn't change what happened here. You know Renly Baratheon is rebelling against the Iron Throne, and how your liege-lord Mace Tyrell had your House thrown into the fray, fighting a pointless cause. I considered you above such dishonor. Last I checked you didn't think highly of Lord Tyrell's decision to declare for Renly."

"There are no easy choices in war. But I'm not blind at our odds." Randyll turns to leave, but looks back at Jaime. "The Tarlys are pulling out of this war. I know when defeat is on the horizon, and I imagine House Tyrell will soon learn their lesson the hard way. We've heard what the Oathkeeper does to his enemies."

"If that's true, then that means you know you're on the losing side so now you aim to win back Daveth's favor. How convenient. Think he's going to negotiate with you? You don't know my nephew very well now, do you?"

"Last I heard he's not unreasonable. Daveth might be a boy, but he's put up a much stronger fight than his father did. We'll petition House Tyrell to end hostilities before the chaos further tears this country apart."

The Lord of Horn Hill leaves the cage, leaving Jaime alone once more.

"Well, that was something…" mused Jaime as he nudged at his restraints. "Now to find a way to get out of these blasted chains…"

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

 

"You wanted to see me, Your Grace?" said Petyr Baelish.

"I did, Lord Baelish," Daveth nods. "Come. Walk with me."

As Petyr and Daveth walked down a hallway next to a courtyard, some Kingsguard and some of Daveth's guards approach from behind as a servant boy is scrubbing grime off the floor.

"I wonder if I might ask you for a favor."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Daveth had to play his moves carefully. He didn't trust Littlefinger at all, but even he understands that even one misstep could set his plans ablaze – the little weasel would catch wind of what he was up to and move to counter them.

"The war should come to a decisive end soon, but reports further north suggests that the Vale refused to budge an inch – even after I've sent ravens to answer the call."

"Curious. The widow Lady Arryn remains at the Eyrie, yes?" Petyr suggested. "Seems like the only logical place for her to be."

"If we are to remain the Seven Kingdoms, then standing idly by is not an option during times of war. You know about the Lannisters and their debts. And I have mine. I have a proposition for you, Lord Baelish."

"Oh? And what would that be?"

"It should be rather enticing considering a man of your... humble origins. Once, I heard a song once about a boy of modest means who found his way into the home of a very prominent family. He loved the eldest daughter. Sadly, she had eyes for another."

"And I've heard some rather interesting things as well, Your Grace. When boys and girls live in the same home, awkward situations can arise. Sometimes, I've heard, even golden-haired twins develop certain affections with one another. And when these affections become common knowledge, well, that is an awkward situation, indeed. Especially in a prominent family. But prominent families often forget a simple truth, I've found."

Daveth couldn't help but feel as if it was a slight on his mother Cersei and uncle Jaime. Whatever differences they may have had with him now, they were still the Oathkeeper's family.

"And what would that be?"

"Knowledge is power."

He was growing tired of these political games. "Seize him."

The guards seize Petyr, who is taken aback by this sudden act.

"Cut his throat."

A guard holds a knife to Baelish's neck, but Daveth intervenes.

"Wait. No. As a matter of fact, I've changed my mind. Let him go."

The guards let Petyr go and stand aside as Daveth stares down Littlefinger.

"Knowledge is power, yes, but overstep your boundaries and you'll find yourself making some very dangerous enemies. Power is power as well, but abuse it and you'll find yourself being surrounded by unruly vassals who want to see you dead. Both are two sides of the same coin, each filling in the blanks of the other. As Master of Coin, you find gold where others cannot. And I grow tired of these little games you play, Lord Baelish. So you will listen to what I offer: I will name you Lord of Harrenhal and grant you its tethered lands and incomes to be held by your sons and grandsons after you when the fighting is done. I'll even arrange a match for you with Lady Lysa and have you named Lord Protector of the Vale until Robin Arryn comes of age. And in return, you will bring the Vale back into the fold and ensure they never remain indecisive in wartime again. Think about it for a while. Good day."

Daveth walks away from Petyr, his guards and Kingsguard knights following close behind. The servant boy scrubbing the floor looks up at Littlefinger. In the feudal hierarchy of Westeros, Baelish was a very minor individual. His family has a small tower on some remote spit of land and are of little note. Because of that, the powerful major houses like the Tullys, Lannisters, Arryns, or any other wouldn't consider him a worthy person to marry into their families. However, the offer to name Baelish Lord of Harrenhall would be a big promotion for him and make him considered a suitable match for someone of a powerful status. One offer could change everything, and it was presented in front of him like a gift waiting to be unwrapped. A person from small, unnoticeable origins to be given the chance to marry into a powerful family of a powerful domain… Littlefinger could not help but admire Daveth for his boldness.

"Clever boy…" Petyr quietly remarks.

* * *

**At the Eyrie...**

* * *

Lady Regent Lysa Arryn was furious. "You want  _me_  to send the knights of the Vale away and leave my little boy unguarded?!" she demanded to the gathered lords.

"This is a royal decree, my lady," said Lord Yohn Royce. "Even if the rumors had a degree of merit, Jon Arryn would have given his life to aid King Daveth Baratheon against the rebel forces and other treacherous elements seeking to undermine him. We merely request you allow us to honor your late husband's memory."

Several other lords and ladies of the Vale, including Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord Gilwood Hunter, Lord Horton Redfort, Lord Benedar Belmore and Ser Vance Corbray. Many of the Valemen had already expressed their desire to enter the fray once they learned of Renly Baratheon's rebellion against Daveth. They also knew how fond Daveth was of their late lord, but Lady Arryn continued denying them that.

"If the Oathkeeper does end up winning, then I'll gladly go to King's Landing to swear fealty. But until then, the Knights of the Vale  _will stay in the Vale_! The safety of my son and your lord is what's important now. That is it."

As the assembled lords and ladies left, Lysa looked on with worry.

 _'They mustn't learn the truth,'_  she thought as she returned to her room.


	25. Assassination of Renly Baratheon

* * *

**At the Tyrell-Baratheon main camp…**

* * *

"Our battles are well drawn up," Renly said.

The King in Highgarden decided that now was the time to rendezvous with Ser Loras Tyrell and his men to the island of Tarth and sail upon King's Landing. Accompanying him was the mighty Brienne of Tarth who helped get his armor on.

"Why not wait for daybreak, Your Grace?" she asked.

The long ranks of man and horse were armored in darkness, as black as if the Smith had hammered night itself into steel. There were banners to her right, banners to her left, and rank on rank of banners before her, but in the predawn gloom, neither colors nor sigils could be discerned. Brienne fit backplate to breastplate over his quilted tunic. The King in Highgarden's armor was a deep gold and green, the green of leaves in a summer wood, so dark it drank the candlelight. Gold highlights gleamed from inlay and fastenings like distant fires in that wood, winking every time he moved. She tightened green leather straps and buckled golden buckles.

"I wish we had more time to prepare, Brienne… but we're standing on our last legs. My father-in-law's bannermen may have caught the Kingslayer, but enemy morale didn't seem to diminish. In fact, they've gotten increasingly bolder."

Renly stood in front of a mirror, contemplating the actions that led to this moment. Years ago Renly and his nephew Daveth sat on the same council discussing politics and other domestic matters.  _'The Crown Prince and the Master of Laws, uncle and nephew… What happened between us?'_  he thought doubtfully before dismissing such notions.  _'No! I must see this through to the end.'_

"Brienne," he spoke finally, "inform the others that I'll be moving to Tarth. With any luck we could end this war in a fortnight."

Before Brienne could move, a cold breeze suddenly swept through the main camp.

"Why is it so cold—?" he asked in a small puzzled voice.

A heartbeat before the steel of his gorget parted like cheesecloth beneath the shadow of a blade that was not there. Brienne turned to look and couldn't comprehend what she was seeing, a shadow taking shape and substance with a man's face. She watched as the shadow flew to Renly and pierced his chest with a dagger of darkness.

***STAB!***

"Ugh!" Renly managed to utter out.

He spluttered as the shadow pulled quickly pulled away, letting blood spurt from his heart to the ground.

"NO!" screamed Brienne.

Renly fell forward into Brienne's arms, who gently held his body close and brought him to the ground.

"No, no, no, no," Brienne sobbed.

"What was that noise? What happened?! Follow me!" voices outside the tent exclaimed.

Two of Renly's Kingsguard knights, Ser Robar Royce and Ser Emmon Cuy, dashed inside the tent swords in hand to see Brienne kneeling over Renly's corpse drenched with his blood on her armor. In the confusion, both assume that she is responsible.

"Traitor!"

"You'll die for this!"

"You'll pay for the King's life with your own!"

"It wasn't me!" cried Brienne, but her now-former comrades refused to listen to her.

Without hesitation, both Robar and Emmon charged at Brienne.

***SWING!***

***SLASH!***

***CLING!***

***CLASH!***

***THRUST!***

Brienne moved faster as she unsheathed her sword to catch Emmon's blade on the downswing. A spark flashed blue-white as steel met steel with a rending crash, the body of the dead pretender King thrust rudely aside. Ser Emmon stumbled over it as he tried to close the gap and Brienne's blade sheared through the wooden haft to bring her blade slashing across Emmon with enough force to kill him. Ser Robar charged forth, thrusting forward but missing Brienne and shattering the mirror.

***SHATTER!***

Brienne pushed Ser Robar away before swinging around to slash behind his knees, bringing Robar down. Left with no other choice, Brienne thrusted her sword down into the back of Robar's neck, killing him instantly. Dropping her bloodied sword, Brienne cried over Renly's dead body. Her weeping was soon brought to an end when a gentle feminine tone reached her.

"You have to leave," the woman behind her said. "If any of Renly's bannermen see what's happened here they will hang you for this. Now."

Brienne looked at the woman in question. She was tall and had waist-length dark hair with haunting violet eyes and wore a purple dress of fine silk, hinting she is of noble birth. She was very beautiful, her skin as smooth and had a more feminine yet slightly muscular physique. She apparently knows how to fight at least. Listening to her voice, her tone emphasized as "foreign" even amongst the Westerosi natives.

 

"I won't leave him!" Brienne said with grief in her voice.

"And you cannot avenge him if you're dead."

"Over there, go!" more voices began approached.

The woman looked at the mourning Brienne. "Come," she commanded and the two made their way out of Storm's End and fled into the woods.

The night air smelled of rain. Behind them, Renly's pavilion was well ablaze, flames rising high against the darkness. No one made any move to stop them. Men rushed past them, shouting of fire and murder and sorcery. Others stood in small groups and spoke in low voices. A few were praying, and one young squire was on his knees, sobbing openly.

"I never held him but as he died," Brienne said quietly as she and her new companion walked through the spreading chaos, her voice sounded as if she might break at any moment again. "He was laughing one moment, and suddenly blood was… my lady, I don't understand. Did you see…?"

"I did," she replied. "I must admit, I've never seen anything like its kind before. But I can tell you it is the work of dark magic."

"It was Stannis, wasn't it? It looked like him."

"It, whatever  _it_  was, looked like a shadow in the shape of a man."

"With my lord's own sword, I will kill him. I swear it, I'll—"

"You will do no such thing," she cut the tall homely girl off. "Does the senseless squabbling among the noble Houses end with the country and its people worn down to nothing? If anything we should make for the capital once we meet up with Lord Tarly and secure the Kingslayer's release."

Brienne stopped and took a moment to listen. "Do you intend to hand me over to the Oathkeeper?" she asked suspected.

"You misunderstand. I only do what is needed to end this pointless chaos plaguing the landscape. After that, I intend to resume my travels. Do not blame yourself for leaving Renly's side, girl. You served him well. But there are others who will need your help."

"I only held him that once as he was dying."

"Listen to me," her companion spoke loudly but firmly. "He's gone. You serve nothing and no one by following Renly to the grave. I believe both Renly and Daveth were played against each other by a third party. Someone wanted to throw the realm into chaos."

"I do not know if that's possible, my lady. But if you think so, I could help determine who is truly responsible. Promise me that you will not hold me back from Stannis."

"I will not hold you back when the time comes."

Brienne nodded. "I never got to know your name, my lady."

The woman stood silent for a while. "Ariyana of House Dayne," she said finally. "Successor to my uncle Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning."

Brienne recognized name "Sword of the Morning" before. It was a title bestowed upon knights of House Dayne deemed worthy to carry the ancestral longsword Dawn. For this reason, the Swords of the Morning are all famous throughout the Seven Kingdoms. The last to bear the title Sword of the Morning was Ser Arthur Dayne, a famed knight of the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen's Kingsguard and a close personal friend of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen. When Arthur died in the rebellion, no one ever expected a new Sword of the Morning could appear at any time. Until now...

* * *

**Back at Renly Baratheon's camp…**

* * *

Hours had passed. Once word of Renly Baratheon's death reached his ears, Ser Loras Tyrell immediately rode to Storm's End from Tarth to mourn his lover's death. He hadn't left Renly's corpse for a long time. Many of the people accused Brienne of Tarth for killing Renly, but she had fled and couldn't defend herself against these claims. Everyone within the camp was in a frenzy. More than half of the Redwyne Fleet was recalled to the Arbor, but more than a few ships and 28,000 men resolved to carry on the plan to attack King's Landing in retribution for Renly's demise. When Highgarden learned of Renly's death, they announced their intentions to surrender the Reach to the Iron Throne and return the captive Ser Jaime Lannister to the King's custody. Margaery and Loras received a summons from their Lord Mace Tyrell to return to Highgarden at once. The Tyrell siblings found themselves staring down at Renly's corpse.

"We need to go home," Margaery told her brother. "Loras!"

Loras's face was devoid of emotion, as he was in shock.

"My lord, my lady," Petyr Baelish made his presence known to the Tyrells as he stepped into the tent.

"Get out," Loras hissed.

Littlefinger merely ignored him. "Stannis Baratheon will arrive to claim the Stormlands for the Iron Throne within the hour. When he does arrive, Renly's bannermen will flock to him. Your former companions will fight for the privilege of selling you to the Oathkeeper."

Loras immediately drew his sword, stepping towards Petyr.

"And you want that privilege for yourself," he snapped angrily.

"You will note that I am standing here talking to you, not Stannis," Petyr said unfazed by the sword aimed at his face.

Margaery took Loras by the shoulder. "There's no time for this!" she exclaimed.

"Ride back to Highgarden, sister," Loras stated as his anger grew. "Stannis follows the Oathkeeper's orders. I'll make them all pay for this. I will put a sword through Daveth's righteous face!"

"You can't stay here."

"Renly would have been a true King, a good King," Loras said as he lowered beside Renly's corpse once more.

"You'll be cut to pieces before Stannis sets foot on solid ground. If you continue to carry out your plans, Daveth Baratheon will show you no mercy."

Margery joined Petyr in the convincing. "You can't avenge him from the grave," she stated. "He's gone now. He doesn't need you anymore. Our family needs you.  _I_  need you."

Loras, still grieving for Renly's death, felt his anger brew again. "I'm not going!" he declared and stormed out of the tent, bringing with him his own group of followers still determined to carry on the siege.

"Loras!" Margaery hollered.

The Knight of the Flowers did not listen and by the time Margaery ran out of the tent, he was already gone. No doubt he was on his way to Tarth and take the small portion of the Redwyne Fleet loyal to him to lay siege to the capital.

"It seems that vengeance is on his mind now," said Petyr. "It's not too late for your father to have Lord Paxter Redwyne send to retrieve Ser Loras."

"I hope it's not too late," Margaery hoped. She took a moment to look at her fallen husband's corpse. "He was very handsome."

"He was, Your Grace."

"'Your Grace'. Calling yourself King doesn't make you one. And if Renly wasn't a King, I wasn't a Queen."

"Do you want to be a Queen?"

"No," Margaery shook her head. "I want to be  _the_  Queen."

* * *

**Inside Daveth Baratheon's chamber at King's Landing…**

* * *

 

Nightfall had befallen the capital. Daveth sat at his desk when Tyrion arrived to bring his nephew the news regarding Renly Baratheon.

"Dead?" asked Daveth. "Killed by whom?"

Tyrion shrugged. "Accounts tend to differ, nephew. Most seem to implicate one of his own Kingsguard, while still others say it was Stannis himself who did it after negotiations went sour."

"And what does the Master of Whisperers have to say about it?"

"Varys says Renly's army is flocking to support Stannis, thereby securing Stannis's hold of the Stormlands. The Tyrells are sending a raven with terms of their surrender, though a renegade group led by Mace's son Ser Loras still intends to launch a naval assault on the capital."

_'Like a moth drawn to a flame,'_  thought Daveth.  _'The Knight of the Flowers seems to have taken the bait.'_

"Nephew?"

Daveth shook his head. "It's nothing. Still it does provide us an opportunity for us to secure Uncle Jaime's release."

Tyrion knew there was more to it than Daveth was letting on. "There's more to it than that, isn't it? About Myrcella?"

Daveth sighed, placing both palms on his face before looking into Tyrion's eyes. "Tell me, Uncle Tyrion… did I do the right thing? Sending my sister off to Dorne? I know we need to bring them back into the fold, but…"

Tyrion looked kind of surprised. Daveth had always appeared so sure of himself, so confident in whatever he set his mind to and not the kind of person to hesitate when an opportunity presented itself. Now to see him doubting himself… it was rather uncertain, but Tyrion could easily tell how concerned Daveth was for his little sister's safety and well-being.

"Listen to me. Myrcella is a sweet, innocent girl and I don't blame you for feeling the way you do. Trust me. I know how hard it was for you to do it, but you made the right decision. She'll be safer in Dorne."

_'I want to believe that, I really do,'_  Daveth thought.

Tyrion raised an eyebrow. "While we're on the subject, when was the last time you slept?"

"I don't seem to recall. I've had to put down a rebellion and give the order to have one of my own family members killed as an enemy of the crown."

"That doesn't mean you have to shoulder everything by yourself, nephew. You've been running yourself ragged since you took the throne. Let me deal with the rest for now. You've got a busy day tomorrow."

"Seeing Myrcella off as she prepares to leave for Dorne…"

The Young Stag slowly stood from his desk, leaving Tyrion the only one to remain in his seat.

"I can't—"

" _You can._ As your uncle  _and_  your advisor, it's my duty to advise you not to push yourself too hard. Now go and get some rest."

Daveth groaned. He was too tired and overwhelmed to even lift a finger to argue at this point and went straight to his bed. As soon as he laid his head down, Tyrion left the room to begin preparing the city's defenses with Lord Hand Eddard Stark in his nephew's absence. Tyrion was not often the kind of person to worry about anyone, other than his brother Jaime, his nephews Daveth and Tommen and his niece Myrcella. The Imp was certain that if the Oathkeeper kept pushing himself too hard it could send him to an early grave. It only seemed fair to help lighten the workload as best as he possibly could.

Once he closed the door, one of Tyrion's messengers arrived with a message. "Pardon me, my lord," the messenger said. "But your cousin Ser Lancel Lannister has asked to see you."

"Ah," Tyrion motioned. "And so now it's time to spring the trap."


	26. Riot of King's Landing

* * *

**At the docks in King's Landing…**

* * *

The day had finally arrived. It was something Daveth had been dreading, but it had to be done. He had no choice but to see it through. A Dornish vessel had arrived near the docks to retrieve Princess Myrcella Baratheon and bring her to Sunspear as part of a pact made with the ruling royal House with House Martell. Attending with the rest of the royal family and their retainers, Daveth decides to send one of his own Kingsguard knights, Ser Arys Oakheart, to guard Myrcella as her sworn shield. Prince Doran Martell had assured King Daveth that he will move his banners into the high passes once Myrcella was settled at Sunspear, though the Young Stag had to be assign someone to protect Myrcella just in case.

"You take care of yourself in Dorne now, you hear?" Daveth told his sister.

"Yes, brother," Myrcella nodded.

"Do not show weakness. No tears. Always keep your head held high and be just as proud. Do not let your guard down even for a minute. Do you understand?"

"Yes, brother."

"And… I meant what I said to you before. I'll write you as many letters as possible."

"You promise you'll come see me?"

"You have my word. I'll miss you, 'Cella."

Tears began to fill Myrcella's eyes. "Me too," her voice cracked.

It was a hard time for the royal House Baratheon. Myrcella was ready to depart on a journey by herself… without her family at her side. She didn't want to leave home, didn't want to leave her brother behind, but Daveth reminded her of her duties as a Princess and a Baratheon. It was important that she sees this through, as heartbreaking as this moment was. The only thing she'll be taking with her from the only home Myrcella's ever known is a golden lion trinket around her neck from her mother Cersei and a black stag cloak given to her by her brother Daveth. The girl never wept. Young as she was, Myrcella Baratheon was a Princess and understood her duty. And a Lannister, despite her name, Tyrion reminded himself, as much Jaime's blood as Cersei's. To be sure, Myrcella's smile was a shade tremulous when all three of her brothers took their leave of her on the deck of the  _Seaswift_ , but the girl knew the proper words to say, and she said them with courage and dignity. When the time came to part, it was twelve-year-old Prince Tommen who cried, and both Sansa and Myrcella who gave him comfort.

Daveth embraced his sister and stood beside Tyrion, Eddard, and Sansa. Tyrion watched his niece step onto the small boat, tears starting to slide down her face. The High Septon began praying to pass his blessings to Myrcella as she leaves for her voyage to Dorne. Sunlight caught in his crystal crown and spilled rainbows across Myrcella's upturned face. The noise from the riverside made it impossible to hear the prayers. He hoped the gods had sharper ears. The High Septon was as fat as a house, and more pompous and long of wind than even Pycelle.

  


"May the Seven guide the Princess on her journey," the High Septon prayed. "May the Mother give her health. May the crown give her wisdom. May the warrior give her courage."

Cersei Lannister sat down; her face devoid of emotion as she watched her only daughter leave. She had not spoken to her eldest son Daveth with a mother's tenderness – but rather a deep scorn. She watched as Sansa hugged Daveth from behind, hoping to ease his discomfort.

"My heart aches for you, my sweet King," she heard Sansa tell him.

She had developed a deep distrust towards Sansa and her affection towards Daveth, one that was apparently reciprocated.

_"You'll be queen, for a time. Then comes another, younger, more beautiful, to cast you down and take all you hold dear,"_  was what Cersei remembered from her younger days when she asked the witch Maggy the Frog to tell her future.

Now Cersei couldn't help but believe that Sansa was the one aiming to take her place – despite the young Stark maiden's innocence and genuine affection.  _'One day I pray you know what love feels like, my son,'_  she thought.  _'I pray you love her so much, when you close your eyes, you see her face. I want that for you. I want you to know what it's like to love someone, to truly love someone. Before I take her from you.'_

She kept silent knowing full well what her eldest son would do in response if Daveth so much as heard such a vile threat directed at Sansa. Horns blew fanfares as  _Lionstar_  was pushed out from ashore, moving down the Blackwater Rush to clear the way for  _Seaswift_. Myrcella tried to put on a smile as her lip trembled and waved from the deck beside Ser Arya Oakheart. Tommen sniffled at seeing his sister leave, greatly irritating Joffrey.

"You sound like a little cat mewling for his mother," Joffrey hissed. "Princes don't cry, neither do Kings."

"If that's what you believe, then why did I see  _you_  cry just now?" Daveth retorted.

Joffrey was incensed at the accusation. "Did you say something, brother?"

"You heard me loud and clear, Illborn."

Sansa watched the two Baratheon brothers argue and tried to gently intervene.

"What he's trying to say is that it seems a normal thing," she suggested. "I mean, my little brother Rickon cried when I left Winterfell last year."

"Is your little brother a Prince?" Joffrey asked sarcastically.

Sansa shook her head. "No."

"Not really relevant then, is it?"

Eddard did not appreciate Joffrey's tone. "Best not to speak to my Daughter like that in front of me, Joffrey." he said firmly.

"Come now, all of you. It's time we return to the Red Keep," announced Daveth.

The royal party began walking up the steps, but Daveth felt an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. If what Eddard told him about the dwindling granaries, then the people in the city would likely starve; although at the same time it did bring a sense of hope now that the fertile lands of the Reach would resume sending crops to the capital.

* * *

**On the streets of King's Landing…**

* * *

The narrow streets were lined by men of the City Watch, holding back the crowd with the shafts of their spears. Ser Jacelyn Bywater went in front, heading a wedge of mounted lancers in black ringmail and golden cloaks. Behind him came the Kingsguard knights Ser Meryn Trant, Ser Mandon Moore, Ser Boros Blount, Ser Preston Greenfield and Ser Balon Swann, bearing the King's banners, a crowned golden stag on a black field. Daveth followed on a tall grey palfrey, a golden crown set upon his black hair. Sansa and a dozen handmaidens walked alongside the Oathkeeper, looking neither right nor left, her thick auburn hair flowing to her shoulders. Two of the Kingsguard, Ser Meryn and Ser Preston, flanked the couple along with the Hand of the King Eddard Stark; Joffrey followed behind them with the Hound on his right; next came Tommen, snuffling, with Cersei and Tyrion and were being protected by Ser Boros and Ser Mandon; after them followed the High Septon in his litter, along with a long tail of other courtiers.

As they crossed Fishmonger's Square and rode along Muddy Way before turning onto the narrow, curving Hook to begin their climb up Aegon's High Hill, a few voices raised a cry as the Oathkeeper rode by.

"All hail the Oathkeeper!"

"Daveth!"

"Long live the King!"

"Hail to the King."

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace."

_'They're hungry,'_  Daveth speculated.  _'I don't blame them for feeling the way they do, of course. But the supplies we are set receive from the Reach hasn't arrived at the gates yet.'_

Bodrin, one of King Daveth's contacts amongst the smallfolk population, stood amongst them to approach the King and was accompanied by several smallfolk.

"You're blocking His Grace's path," warned Ser Meryn.

"I just seek a word, good ser," said Bodrin. "It's rather urgent."

Ser Meryn and Ser Preston didn't approve a commoner approaching royalty, but when they saw Daveth nod his head they begrudgingly stood aside to allow him access.

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Your Grace. But can I have a word?"

"You may speak," Daveth granted his permission.

Eddard stood beside the Young Stag, watching this man as Bodrin inhaled.

"Your Grace, the people here are feeling the effects of the war. The toll, I'm afraid, is beginning to weigh down on most of them. No doubt you see plenty of their faces."

Daveth looked at the hundreds, maybe thousands of faces looking down at him. For every man who picked up the shout, some remained silent. Others, meanwhile, yearned for the answers they had hoped to get from the King who provided them security and safety among other things that were provided to them in the past year since his ascent to the throne.

"They're starving," he pointed out.

Bodrin nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. If I may ask, and I hope it's not unbecoming… when do you believe we'll begin receiving food again?"

Daveth looked at Eddard; the Stark patriarch seemed to understand what the Young Stag was telling him by only looking at his eyes.

"We've received word that Highgarden and the Reach have decided to end hostilities and will resume sending crops and other supplies to the capital," Eddard spoke up. "If the reports from the scouts are accurate, any available food will be distributed throughout the city within the next four days along the Roseroad."

"Four days?" said Bodrin rather anxiously. "I-It'll take that long?"

"The road to Highgarden from here is more than 750 miles," explained Daveth. "To travel from here to there and back would take time. But I assure you everyone here will be fed. You have my word."

A few murmurs began whispering from amongst the smallfolk to the other, wondering if what the King and Lord Hand was telling their chosen representative was true. Some had their doubts, but based on what their exchanges to each other were about it sounded rather hopeful. The Lannisters moved behind the King through a sea of ragged men and hungry women, breasting a tide of sullen eyes. Cersei was laughing at something Lancel had said, though he suspected her merriment was feigned. She could not be oblivious to the unrest around them, but Daveth knew his mother always believed in putting on the brave show.

"There's the bastard!" a voice called out.

The discussion between Daveth, Eddard and Bodrin stopped once they heard that. Cersei heard it too.

"His brother is not a true Baratheon!"

Daveth narrowed his eyes and leaned in to Eddard. "Lord Stark…" he said quietly.

"WHAT'S THE HOLDUP UP THERE?" shouted Joffrey impatiently.

"Freak!" the crowd began shouting louder.

"He's nowhere near the man his brother is!"

Behind them, Tyrion turned to the guards and noticed a menacing look in one of the smallfolks's eyes.

"Get the Prince back to the Red Keep now," he ordered.

The Lannister guards grab Tommen and quickly walk away, while Tyrion tried to make his way up to the front to warn Daveth as people kept shouting as they saw Joffrey. Sansa saw a wailing woman holding her starving baby. It was small, filthy and mewling weakly, but the real horror was the mother's eyes. Sansa reached in her coin purse and gave her 10 silver stags. The mother blinked once, and thanked the Stark maiden for her generosity.

"Leave her, little dove," Cersei called out to Sansa. "She's beyond our help, poor thing."

The mother heard the Queen Mother's comment. Somehow Cersei's voice cut through the woman's ravaged wits. Her slack face twisted in loathing. "Whore!" she shrieked as she pointed at Cersei. "Kingslayer's whore! Brotherfucker!"

"Brotherfucker!" the crowed chimed in.

"Witch! Slut! Whore!"

"Brotherfucker!"

Daveth and Eddard turned to look behind them.

"Lord Stark!" Daveth shouted again.

Eddard nodded and motioned the guards and City Watchmen to pick up the pace, ignoring Bodrin's confusion. However, none of them were prepared for what happened next.

***SMACK!***

Eddard and Tyrion never saw who threw the dung that hit Joffrey square in the face. Sansa gasped and Joffrey bellowed a curse, and when he turned his head, the Prince was wiping brown filth from his cheek. There was more caked in his golden hair and narrowly spattered in front of Sansa's legs. The City Watch and Kingsguard drew their swords at the ready, startling the assembled crowd.

"WHO THREW THAT?!" Joffrey screamed in a blinding fury, shouting as he pushed his fingers into his hair and flung away another handful of dung.

"Joffrey!" exclaimed both Eddard and Daveth, knowing exactly what he was about to say next.

"Please, Prince Joffrey, don't—" Sansa pleaded.

"I WANT THE MAN WHO THREW THAT! FIND WHO DID THAT AND BRING HIM TO ME!"

A tumult of sound drowned his words, a rolling thunder of rage and fear and hatred that engulfed the unpopular Baratheon from all sides.

"Hold!" one of the Watchmen shouted as they tried to hold the crowd off. "Hold them back!"

"JUST KILL THEM!" Joffrey commanded. "KILL THEM ALL!"

"JOFFREY!" Daveth shouted again, but to no avail.

From both sides of the street, the crowd surged against the spear shafts while the gold cloaks struggled to hold the line. What started as a courteous series of questions about food had quickly deteriorated into a full-scale riot instigated by King Daveth's younger brother Joffrey. In that instant, stones and dung and fouler things were whistling overhead. Tyrion spurred to his sister's side, yelling.

"Move! Move!" the Imp shouted.

Cersei gave a curt nod, and Lancel unsheathed his sword. Ahead of the column, Eddard Stark was roaring commands to his household guards. The City Watchmen lowered their lances and drove forward in a wedge.

***SLASH!***

Ser Meryn's sword slashed down, killing one of the rioters.

"Protect the King!" Ser Meryn shouted.

"Go, go, go!" shouted Eddard who followed alongside him.

"Tear him to pieces!" the rioters yelled.

Others fought to keep up the pace, few with swords in their hands. A few jagged rocks flew past the Oathkeeper's head as Daveth pushed forward, and a rotten cabbage exploded against Ser Balon's helmet. To their left, three City Watchmen were taken down by the mob under the surge before they darted forward, trampling the fallen men. Sandor Clegane grabbed Joffrey and held him close as the Illborn defiantly struggled in the Hound's grip.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! I WANT THESE PEOPLE EXECUTED!"

"They want the same for you!" the Hound shouted back as he cut his way through the riot.

"Protect the King!" Ser Meryn shouted again as more Kingsguard quickly gathered around Daveth. "Get back!"

Ser Boros had blood smeared along his blade, while Ser Meryn's white cloak had been torn slightly. Ser Balon lost his helmet and was bleeding from the mouth. Eddard escorted Cersei and Tyrion inside the nearest building.

"There's the brotherfucker!" another rioter shouted as they saw Cersei.

"Fall back!" Ser Boros yelled.

Eddard looked around for his daughter, but to his growing fear and dismay he couldn't find Sansa amongst the rioting. He saw the High Septon spilling from his litter, screeching prayers as the crowd swarmed him. The High Septon screamed as one of the rioters tore the holy man apart, lifting a bloody arm in the air in cheer. Eddard couldn't do much for him now. He knows of his duties as King Daveth's Hand, but Eddard was a father first. He had to find Sansa before something bad happens.

_'Forgive me, Your Grace, but I have to do this,'_  Eddard thought, pulling his sword out as he made his way back into the crowd.  _'Hang on, Sansa! I'm coming!'_

* * *

**Inside one of the safe houses…**

* * *

Once the royal party found a safe place to seek refuge from the chaos, a one of the alchemists approached to see if anyone was wounded.

"Are you hurt?" he asked Tyrion.

Tyrion felt winded. "I'm fine."

"TRAITORS!" Joffrey was babbling. "I'LL HAVE ALL THEIR HEADS."

Daveth was nearby and erupted in a fury. "DAMN YOU, YOU BLIND, BLOODY FOOL! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT YOU HAVE DONE!?"

"YOU CAN'T INSULT ME! YOU HEARD THOSE PEOPLE CALLING ME NAMES—!"

"WE'VE HAD VICIOUS KINGS AND WE'VE HAD IDIOT KINGS, BUT I DON'T KNOW IF THE SEVEN KINGDOMS HAS EVER BEEN CURSED WITH HAVING BEEN FORCED TO PUT UP WITH A VICIOUS IDIOT PRINCE!"

"YOU CAN'T—!"

"I CAN, I AM, AND I WILL, YOU SPOILED WITLESS LITTLE ILLBORN!"

"THEY  _ATTACKED ME_!" Joffrey argued as he pointed to his dung-encrusted face.

Daveth refused to accept that as a logical argument. "THEY THREW A  _COW PIE_  AT YOU, SO YOU DECIDED TO KILL THEM ALL?!" he yelled in Joffrey's pace and poked him hard. "THEY'RE STARVING, YOU FOOL! ALL BECAUSE OF A STUPID WAR!"

"YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO  _INSULT ME_!"

***BAM!***

In the middle of the argument, Daveth's face twisted and turned purple and in his fury had punched Joffrey directly in the face, not even caring if dung had smattered on his knuckles. Apparently Daveth had hit Joffrey so hard he knocked out three of his brother's teeth and drew blood.

"AND NOW YOU'RE BEING PUNISHED ACCORDINGLY!" Daveth retorted at his fallen brother. Joffrey whined as he held his bruised cheek as Cersei rushed over to kneel over her son, while Ser Lancel tried to rush but froze in fear as Daveth glared at him. "Where is Lord Stark?! Where Sansa?!" he shouted.

For a moment no one answered.

"I don't know where they went…" Joffrey said finally as Cersei was wiping the blood from his mouth.

Daveth turned to his brother. "IF THE HAND OF THE KING OR HIS DAUGHTER DIES, THEN I SWEAR TO THE MOTHER I'LL HAVE YOUR HEAD ON A SPIKE! You owe me quite a bit, you know!"

He turned to grab his sword and marched towards the door, intending to get back out there.

"Your Grace!" Ser Mandon Moore shouted untroubled. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to find them."

"Your place is  _here_!" Cersei shouted. "Send Boros and Meryn to find—"

"Your Grace," Ser Boros told Cersei, not looking pleased at the prospect of leaving the safety of the castle, "the sight of our white cloaks might enrage the mob."

"THE OTHERS TAKE YOUR FUCKING WHITE CLOAKS!" Daveth shouted. "I have neither the time nor the patience to deal with such incompetence!" he argued and stormed out, ignoring the calls of Cersei and the other Kingsguard. "Sansa…" he whispered.

Unbeknownst to Daveth, the Hound followed suit.

* * *

**Back outside…**

* * *

Sansa Stark had been separated from the others, from her handmaidens. Her pink dress had been dirtied slightly and her hair was coming undone. Panic began to fill her eyes as Sansa pushed her way through the crowd. Her path was soon blocked as four to six men surrounded her on all sides. Looking for an escape route, Sansa ran down an alleyway as the men began pursuing her.

"Where are you going?" they laughed wickedly.

She turned the corner into a nearby building, but Sansa saw no way out as one of the rioters grabbed her arm and spun her around.

"Let go of me!"

***SMACK!***

Sansa slapped the man across the face, but it didn't seem to faze him.

***WHAM!***

The rioter backhanded Sansa across the face, sending her flying to the ground. She whimpered and tried to crawl away, but felt the men grab both her legs and draw her backwards.

"Where are you going?"

"Please! Let me go!" Sansa whimpered as she kicked.

One of the men pinned her down and leaned in close to her ear. "You ever been fucked, little girl?" he grinned.

_'NO!'_  she realized what they intended to do to her. "NO!" Sansa finally shouted as she started thrashing with all her might.

"Come here!" they said, dragging Sansa closer.

Sansa screamed and continued thrashing and kicking as she desperately tried to get away, but to no avail as the men were too strong and held her arms down to stop them from flailing.

"No! Please!" Sansa felt two of them grab her legs and try to pull her leggings down. The more she struggled to stop her aggressors from trying to rape her, the more the men were enjoying it. "Help! Someone, help!" she screamed loudly. "Father! Daveth! Anyone—!"

The man holding her arms grinned wickedly and covered her mouth. "No one's gonna hear you, little bird—"

"LET GO OF MY DAUGHTER!" Eddard shouted in rage.

Sansa looked up and saw her father charge into view. "Father!"

Eddard tackled the men to the ground, but the others released their grip on Sansa and jumped onto Eddard. The old warrior fought them off, but before he could raise his blade one of them had a sword plunged through their throat.

***BLEARGH!***

As one of the rioters fell, Eddard, Sansa and the others looked to see Daveth standing over them – wielding his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer. With a cold look in his eyes, Daveth had the intent to kill look.

"T-the Oathkeeper!" they shouted.

As they tried to get away, Daveth kicked one of them and plunged Stormbringer into their chest cavity. As he pulled out, the man's guts spilled onto the ground. Eddard struck down the other two before the last one was grabbed by Daveth.

"Please, Your Grace!" he begged for mercy. "Please—!"

***SNAP!***

Daveth refused to listen and snapped the rioter's neck, releasing his grip and watched him slump to the ground.

"Your Grace!" Eddard exclaimed in surprise.

Sansa, finding her voice finally, had never felt so relieved and so happy to see both her father and betrothed coming to her rescue. "Daveth!" she spoke.

Once Daveth's killing instinct wore off, he came back to his senses and dropped to his knees. "Sansa! Thank the Gods," he said relieved. "Are you hurt?"

Sansa turned to show the side of her face, blood was trickling down her brow from a deep gash on her scalp.

"My daughter needs to see a maester!" said Eddard.

"I know, Lord Stark, I know!" replied Daveth.

Carefully the Young Stag hoisted Sansa up to carry her to safety bridal style as she locked her arms tightly around his neck. He had to be careful with how he carried Sansa, as the three of them now made their way out. "It'll be all right, little dove," Daveth assured Sansa. "Your father and I are getting you out of here."

Sansa held her grip ever so tight, comforted at her betrothed's assurances. "Thank you…" she whispered into his neck.

"Seems you didn't need my help after all, Oathkeeper," Sandor said gruffly.

"Clegane," Daveth said. "You sure took your sweet time coming here."

"Couldn't let you have the fun now."

Eddard shook his head. "This is not the time for amusements, Clegane. We need to get back to the others now."

"Follow me."

* * *

**Back at one of the safe houses…**

* * *

Daveth, Sansa, Eddard and Sandor forced their way through the rioting crowds back into the safe house. Tyrion, Cersei and the other Kingsguard knights looked as the King made his return as Sansa's arms remained around Daveth's neck.

"Are you hurt, my lady?" Tyrion asks.

Sandor pointed to Sansa's injuries. "The little bird's bleeding. Someone take her back to her cage. See to that cut."

Daveth looked at Eddard. "Lord Stark, it's best if you go with them. Your daughters need you more than I do."

"No worries about that, Your Grace."

The Young Stag gently passed Sansa to Eddard. She winced as she felt blood from her injury trickle from her brow as she tried to wipe it away from her eye.

"Daveth…" Sansa reached out for him.

"I'll be alright, Sansa. I'll come back to check on you once the riot dies down. You have my word."

Yet by sundown the city still struggled to cope with the riots, though Tyrion and Bronn reported that fires in Flea Bottom were quenched and the last of the roving mobs dispersed. Much as Daveth yearned to check on Sansa, he knew that he wouldn't go anywhere for a while that night. The list of the slain was topped by the High Septon, ripped apart as he squealed to the Seven gods for mercy. Starving men take a hard view of priests too fat to walk. Ser Aron Santagar's corpse had been located by several of his men, and he had been stabbed and hacked so cruelly that his head was reduced to a red pulp. Lady Tanda's daughter had been raped by half a hundred shouting men behind a tanner's shop. The City Watch found her wandering naked on Sowbelly Row. Nine gold cloaks were slain, two score wounded. No one had troubled to count how many of the mob had died.

"Damn you, Joffrey," Daveth cursed when the counting was done. "…Do you see the chaos you have wrought upon my city? I will not have it any longer."

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Sansa walked through the halls of the Red Keep. Part of her was still shaken by the riots that took place several days earlier, how she was almost… no. She shook her head vigorously. Don't even think about it! Sansa closed her eyes and remembered the faces of each man who tried to force themselves on her, only for them to fall one by one due to the timely intervention of her father Eddard and her beloved King Daveth before they even had a chance to react. She heard whispers from some of the other noble ladies of the court that Daveth had rapidly swept away the mobbing dissenters within the city. Furthermore, once the riots officially died down, Sansa heard that Daveth placed all of the blame for the devastating city-wide riot at the hands of his brother Joffrey. These actions shocked the court, earned Daveth his mother Cersei's ire, yet it also won him the loyalty of many of King's Landing's influential courtiers and smallfolk. The Seven Kingdoms belonged to Daveth now, and his Small Council advisors were seen as nothing more than figureheads.

She thought back on the night before with her sister…

 

> **ooOoo**
> 
> ****
> 
> _"Ow!" Sansa winced as Shae and Arya cleaned the cut on her brow._
> 
> _"Easy now," Shae comforted her. "It's not deep."_
> 
> _"Seven hells," Arya cursed bitterly. "This is all Joffrey's fault, I know it!"_
> 
> _Shae brought a finger to Arya's lips. "Don't say these things, girl. If the wrong people heard you…"_
> 
> _That seemed to make Arya angrier. "Why should I care what these southern lords have to say? They hurt my sister! They hurt my family!"_
> 
> _"I thought they were going to kill me," Sansa quivered. "He hated me, the man who hit me. I saw it in his eyes. Hated me. He never met me before, but he wanted to hurt me."_
> 
> _"Of course he did," Shae answered._
> 
> _"Why?" Arya asked. "Why would a stranger…"_
> 
> _"Because you and your sister are everything he will never have," Shae explained. "Your horses eat better than his children. It doesn't matter now. He's dead."_
> 
> _Arya thought aloud. "I heard father and Daveth made sure of it. Got to give the Oathkeeper credit for keeping his end of the bargain, at least."_
> 
> _"I would have given them bread if I had any," Sansa contemplated._
> 
> _Shae shook her head in slight exasperation. "You know how hard the King fought to end the rebellion and secure food for his subjects. Tooth and nail. Day and night. And the Oathkeeper will continue doing so until his last breath. As his Queen, you yourself should know that."_
> 
> _Sansa breathed in steadily. "He has a name."_
> 
> _"I know that, girl. I know Daveth has a name. Just be sure to stay close to him from now on, alright?"_
> 
> **ooOoo**

 

Sansa sighed as her handmaiden's words repeated themselves in her head. She brought her hand against her right arm, giving a small squeeze as she noticed Daveth approaching – having dealt with his mother's scowling outburst.

"I beg your pardon, Your Grace," Sansa called out to him.

Daveth stopped in his tracks and saw Sansa giving him a warm, welcoming smile.

"Back then… at the alley… Thank you for saving me. You were so brave."

Daveth shook his head. "Not sure I'd call it that, little dove… but thank you for saying so. You had me worried there for a moment."

"You… were worried?"

"Of course I was worried, Sansa! What kind of King would I be if I can't even protect my own Queen?" he moved toward her and raised a hand to caress her cheek.

Sansa lowered her eyes as she felt heat rush to her cheeks, knowing how much she meant to him. Whatever fear she felt yesterday had dissipated whenever Daveth looked at her that way. Sansa leaned her head into Daveth's hand; her eyes fluttered as she enjoyed the warm touch to her cheek. A faint smile brushed her face.

"The world needs more men like you, my sweet King. Like the heroes of the songs."

Daveth frowned at that statement. "There are no men like me, little dove. Only me," he whispered.

Sansa looked at Daveth, uncertain as to what her betrothed had just murmured. Any tender moment temporarily ceased when she felt another cramp hit.

"Ugh," she groaned.

"Are you all right?" Daveth asked.

Sansa shook her head. "It's… it's nothing serious, my love. This… discomfort started the moment I had my first flowering."

Daveth had a hard time understanding female biology, but felt it was simply best that he didn't know the details of things rather impersonal. "Well… at least the wedding can proceed once the small host of desperate rebels is crushed when they arrive."

That caught Sansa's attention. What did he mean? "I don't understand," she spoke. "I thought the rebellion was over."

Daveth shook his head. "Officially, it is. However, it seems that the Knight of the Flowers seems hell bent on attacking us. He still blames me for Renly's demise. Our scouts tell us he will sail upon King's Landing within the next eight or nine days with more than 28,000 men and a small fraction of the Redwyne Fleet."

"Ser Loras…? But I thought…"

"Indeed he has chosen to ignore the summons of his father, the Lord of Highgarden. But it makes no difference to me."

"Daveth— Your Grace. You don't intend to—"

"Kill him? No, of course not. Do I look like Joffrey to you? Ser Loras is more useful to use alive than dead."

"Then you mean to take him as a hostage?"

Daveth raised a finger. "I see you've been practicing, Sansa. In times of war, hostages are taken and kept alive to use later in political negotiations or in exchange for ransom. Such prisoners are usually only held until the war is over. As a high-profile hostage can be an important bargaining chip. Loras's father has someone I want, and once the Knight of the Flowers is in our custody, we'll have what the Lord of Highgarden wants: his son and heir, for my uncle."

Sansa chewed her bottom lip slightly. "Just promise me that you'll end it just as quickly."

Daveth shook his head. "I do not know if I can make such a promise, Sansa. But I'll see what I can do."

The couple continued their walk together to discuss their plans for what comes after Loras's expected attack on King's Landing. But for now, Daveth and Sansa stood side by side and allowed themselves a moment of pure bliss.


	27. Fire and Blood

* * *

**Across the Narrow Sea, near Qarth…**

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen was having a bad year. Since the day of her happy marriage to Khal Drogo, she went from a hellish moment and into a sad tragic ending. First her older brother Viserys arrived drunk at the feast for Daenerys's son Rhaego only for her brother to draw his sword to demand Khal Drogo pay the agreed price for Daenerys by providing troops for the invasion of Westeros; he wants his crown or he will take his sister back. When he dared threaten Daenerys and her unborn child, Drogo had Viserys executed by pouring molten gold over his head.

**ooOoo**

_"They can't shed blood in their sacred city, but I can," Viserys chuckled as he pointed the tip of his sword to Daenerys stomach. "I want what I came for. I want the crown he promised me. He bought you, but he never paid for you."_

_A Dothraki girl stood next to Drogo and translated what Viserys was saying; Khal Drogo glared fiercely at Viserys. "_ _Ifak asta meme zala firikhnharen, meme zala rek meme nem jer ki mae…che me vesazhae khaleesies. (The foreigner says that he wants a crown, that he wants that which was traded to him...or he will take back the khaleesi.)"_

_"Tell him I want what was bargained for," he continued, "or I'm taking you back. He can keep the baby. I'll cut it out and leave it for him."_

_"Me asta meme vos vesazhao khalakkaes. Me asta meme azirissee khalakkaes khaleesisoon ma vannevae mae shafkea. (He says that he will not take back the prince. He says that he will cut the prince out of the khaleesi and leave him for you)," Irri translated._

_"Anha vazhak maan rek me zala. Anha vazhak maan firikhnharen hoshora ma mahrazhi aqovi affin mori atihi mae. (I will give to him what he wants. I will give to him a golden crown and men will tremble when they will see it)," Drogo finally spoke in his native tongue as his riders slowly crept up behind Viserys._

_"What's he saying?" Viserys asked Daenerys impatiently._

_"He says yes," she answers._

_Viserys looked at her in surprise._

_"He says you shall have a golden crown, one that men shall tremble to behold."_

_Viserys's smile grew and grew as Daenerys spoke. He looked towards Khal Drogo and chuckled._ _"That was all I wanted," he said, taking his blade away from Daenerys's stomach and stepped back. "W-what was promised."_

_Khal Drogo stood up and walked next to Daenerys, placing his hand on her stomach as they exchange looks. Drogo looks at his Dothraki riders and gives the awaited signal._

_"Qora mae! ( _Seize him!)"__

**_*SNAP!*_ **

_"GEAAH! No!" Viserys screamed. One of Khal Drogo's riders broke Viserys's arm, making him drop his sword as the other physically restrained him. "No! You cannot touch me! I am the dragon! I am the dragon! I want my crown! Ahh!"_

_"Ammeni haz jolin! ( _Empty that pot.)"__

_The two_ _men force Viserys to the ground, still holding him by his arms. The Khal moves towards them and mutters something in Dothraki. A woman tips over a kettle that was over the fire, pouring out its contents. Drogo throws some golden jewelry into the kettle._

_"Look away, khaleesi," Jorah beckons._

_Daenerys shook her head. "No," she said._

_Khal Drogo looked back in the pot and smirked. Viserys noticed Drogo's smirk and looked back at his sister._

_"No. Dany! Dany, tell them, make them!" he begged. "You can't! Dany please!"_

_For years Daenerys had to put up with her older brother's verbal and physical abuse. Now she had finally had enough and refused to intervene on his behalf this time. In the pot the golden jewelry melted down into liquid. Khal Drogo lifted the kettle up and walked over to the screaming Viserys._

_"A crown for a King," Drogo spoke in the Common Tongue._

_Khal Drogo raises the kettle over Viserys's head and pours out the melted gold onto his skull. He screams as the hot liquid solidifies on his skull, the two men release Viserys, he instantly falls to the ground dead._

_"Khaleesi…" said Jorah._

_"He was no dragon," Daenerys said as she gazed upon Viserys's corpse. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."_

**ooOoo**

****

Daenerys had felt that the shackles keeping her in place were finally broken, but with one loss came another much greater. To raise funds to hire the ships necessary for this endeavor, Drogo leads his  _khalasar_  into the lands of Lhazar, the 'lamb-men'. They seize loot and slaves that they can sell. Daenerys is appalled at how the Dothraki treat their prisoners, particularly the women, and wins them better treatment. One of Drogo's own riders, Mago, objected and challenged Khal Drogo to single-combat. Drogo easily won but sustained a chest wound. One of the women Daenerys has saved, Mirri Maz Duur, tends to the injury. On the way south to the edge of a great wasteland, Khal Drogo's wound festered and he fell from his horse, a grave sign of weakness amongst the Dothraki. Duur continued treating him, but voices her opinion that the Khal's wound is fatal. Daenerys convinced her to employ the use of magic to save her beloved Drogo's life, which the other Dothraki objected to. Ser Jorah Mormonet killed one of Drogo's bloodriders, Ootho, when he tried to intervene but Daenerys is injured in the altercation and went into early labor, forcing Jorah to take Daenerys to Duur for treatment.

The following morning shook her to her very core.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _"YOU KNEW WHAT I WAS BUYING AND YOU KNEW THE PRICE!" Daenerys shrieked at Mirri Maz Duur in pain and sorrow._
> 
> _Upon awakening from her treatment, Daenerys was informed by Jorah and Duur that her son Rhaego was stillborn. Although Drogo was alive but in a vegetative state, the cost of sparing the Khal's life was that of her unborn son through the ritual Duur performed. To Daenerys, the dragon queen felt betrayed._
> 
> _"It was wrong of the Dothraki to burn my temple," Duur countered. "It angered the Great Shepherd."_
> 
> _"This is not God's work! My child was innocent!"_
> 
> _"'Innocent'?" Duur mocked. "How would have been The Stallion Who Mounts The World. Now he will burn no cities. Now his khalasar will trample no nations to dust."_
> 
> _"I spoke up for you! I saved you!"_
> 
> _"Saved me? Three of those riders had already raped me before you saved me, girl. I saw my god's house burn, there where I had healed men and women beyond counting. In the streets I saw piles of heads, the head of the baker who makes my bread, the head of a young boy that I had cured of fever just three moons past. So tell me again exactly what it is you saved?"_
> 
> _"Your life," Daenerys reminded her threateningly._
> 
> _Duur wasn't moved. "Why don't you take a look at your Khal. Then you will see exactly what life is worth when all the rest are gone."_
> 
> **ooOoo**

Daenerys had lost her husband, her son… and most of her khalasar had abandoned her. A few loyal to her stayed at her side. She was visibly distressed and cried at having to force herself to smother Khal Drogo, not wanting to see him in such a vegetative state. But in the end, Daenerys got her revenge when she built a funeral pyre for Drogo. She placed her three dragon eggs on it and tied Mirri Maz Duur to Drogo's pyre to be burned alive in retribution for taking her husband and son away from her. The family she will never have. Although Duur proclaimed Daenerys will not hear her scream, Daenerys retorted that she will not only hear her scream but also Duur's life taken away.

_'I am Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen,'_ Daenerys reminded herself.  _'Blood of the old Valyria. I am the Dragon's daughter. And I swear that those who wronged me and harm my people will die screaming.'_

__

Once the fire had cleared overnight and ashes were left, Daenerys emerged from the smoke, covered in shoot and carried three baby dragons in her arms and on her back. Daenerys looked up and saw her three dragons flying overhead and perching themselves on her shoulders. She named each of them after the three important people in her life, Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion. Drogon, with its black scales and red markings covering its body, was named after Daenerys's late husband Khal Drogo. He was by far the oldest, largest and by far the most aggressive and fiercely protective of the three. Viserion, with its gold-cream scales and red-orange wings, was named after her older brother Viserys. Rhaegal, with its green and bronze colorings, was named after her eldest brother Prince Rhaegar.

She had sent several of her khalasar to find shelter, but only one returned with an invitation from the great city of Qarth. Daenerys leads her people there and is disappointed at the lukewarm reception she receives.

* * *

**At Qarth…**

* * *

Daenerys didn't like waiting, much less so when she was sure it was a demonstration of power. She paced the hall of the Spice King's home, all but fuming - she'd been there nearly an hour, and Xaro Xhoan Daxos's reassuring platitudes were doing little to lessen her irritation.

"He shouldn't make me wait," she snapped, for the third time.

"The Spice King is the second-wealthiest man in Qarth. He makes everyone wait," Xaro said, patiently. He smirked, adding, "Of course, you could have avoided this embarrassment if you'd  _married_  the wealthiest man in Qarth."

And she was getting so very sick of hearing that. "I already have a husband," she replied evenly.

"Khal Drogo is gone, khaleesi. You are far too young to be a widow forever, and…" his gaze flicked over her, "far too beautiful."

It wasn't that she didn't think of moving on beyond Drogo - in many ways, she had. It was that she refused to prostitute herself to a man who she found, while charming and generous, unappealing.

"And you are far too smart to think that I will succumb to flattery."

"I've traveled far and long, and met many women. And none that are immune to flattery."

A reply flew to her lips, but it was left aside when she heard a voice booming from the upstairs. "The Mother of Dragons! Forgive me," the Spice King said as he descended the stairs with a full entourage. "I had terrible dreams last night.  _Terrible_  dreams! I could not sleep until the sun was shining and the birds were singing." His attention turned to her, a smile curving his lips. "Look what a beauty you are, now that the Red Waste has been washed off you. I am sorry about all that...unpleasantness. But look at you - the silver hair of a  _true_  Targaryen! Xaro Xhoan Doxas, she is far too lovely for a glorified dock worker like yourself."

"Very true," Xaro agreed genially, "and yet they say, your grandfather - who sold pepper off the back of a wagon - married a lady far lovelier and higher-born than himself."

"Every lady alive was lovelier and higher-born than my grandfather," the Spice King pointed out, to giggles from his crowd. He frowned a bit. "Did my servants not offer you something to eat? To drink? I'll have them flogged in the square!"

She was very tired of this, already. "Thank you, my lord. You are a gracious host, but there is no servant alive who can bring me what I want."

He smiled at her, all condescension. "Ah, she has a talent for drama, this one. So, my little princess, what is it you want?"

She was not a princess. Not when she was the rightful ruler, and she reminded him of that. "My birthright ― the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros!"

"I fear I'm no better than a servant in this regard," the Spice King said. "I cannot give you what I do not have."

"I'm not asking you for the kingdoms," Dany replied, trying to be patient. This felt like a game of words, though. "I'm asking you for ships. I need to cross the Narrow Sea."

"I need my ships as well. I use them, you see," he said, as though she were a very small child, "to bring spices from one port to another!"

"Whatever you grant me now will be repaid three times over when I retake the Iron Throne," she promised, perhaps hastily.

"Retake?" He frowned. "Did you once sit on the Iron Throne?"

"My father sat there, before he was murdered."

"But if you did not sit on it yourself," the Spice King said, looking confused, "would it not be correct to say  _take_?"

"I didn't come here to argue grammar," Daenerys said, her temper beginning to flare.

"No," he replied, sounding much less like an indulgent grandfather, "you came to take my ships. So let me explain my position to you, little princess. Unlike you, I do not have exalted ancestors. I make my living by trade, and I judge every trade on its merits. You ask for ships, you say I shall be repaid triple. I do not doubt your honest or your intentions, but before you repay your debts, you must seize the Seven Kingdoms. Do you have an army?"

"Not yet."

"You do not have an army. Do you have powerful allies in Westeros?" he asked, rolling his eyes.

"There are many there that support my claim!"

"When were you there last?"

And there he had her.

"I left when I was a baby."

"So, in truth, you have no allies," the Spice King pointed out.

"The people will rise to fight for their  _rightful_  Queen when I return!" she proclaimed.

"Ah." He pointed at her. "Forgive me, little princess, but I cannot make an investment based on wishes and dreams! Now, if you'll pardon me."

"Do you know Illyrio Mopatis, Magistar of Pentos?" she threw out, desperately.

"Yes, we've met. A shrewd man," the Spice King said, approvingly.

"For my wedding, he gave me three petrified dragons' eggs. He believed - the world believed - that the ages had turned them to stone. How many centuries has it been since dragons roamed the skies? But I dreamt that if I carried those eggs into a great fire they would hatch. When I stepped into the fire, my own people thought I was mad. But when the fire burned out, I was unhurt. The Mother of Dragons."

He stared at her, as she regained her breath, almost smiling. She had hope.

"Do you understand?" she asked, more softly, as she took a step closer. "I'm no ordinary woman. My dreams come true."

He stepped closer as well. "I admire your passion. But in business, I trust in logic, not passion. I'm sorry, little princess."

She'd had enough. "I am not your little princess," she sneered. "I am Daenerys Stormborn of the blood of old Valyria, and I will take what is mine! With fire and blood, I will take it!"

"Yes, my lady," he called, as he walked away. "But not with my ships."

* * *

**The following morning…**

* * *

"The Spice King refuses me because I'm a bad investment, the Silk King won't support me because of his business with the Lannisters ― why offend his best customers? ― and the Copper King offers me a single ship, on the condition that I lie with him for a night." Daenerys was at the end of her wits. "Does he think I will whore myself for a boat?"

Though, the line wasn't too far from Xaro, either.

"When I came to this city," he replied, waiting for her tirade to finish as they walked his gardens, "I had nothing. Truly,  _nothing_. I slept by the docks, and when I could find work loading the ships I would eat, and when not, I dreamed of food. Today, I am the richest man in Qarth. Do you think the path from poverty to wealth is always pure and honorable? I have done many things, khaleesi, that a righteous man would condemn. And here I am… with no regrets."

He opened the door for her, and she stepped through to hell. Her bloodriders - those few who hadn't been with her, and thank the gods, old and new, that Jorah had been out looking for a ship for her by honest means - were slain. Bodies lay across her courtyard, blood streaming from gaping wounds. She ran. She saw their dead brown eyes staring at nothing, and she ran for her room. How much worse could it be? What horrors awaited her upstairs? Distantly, she heard Xaro say something about closing gates, but her blood was pounding in her ears. She had been so stupid. It was worse than she could have thought. In her room, prone on her floor, was Irri. Her arms akimbo, her eyes closed - she could have been asleep. Dany's heart broke for her friend, but then…

"Where are they?" Daenerys choked out, her voice breaking as the realization slammed into her. " _WHERE ARE MY DRAGONS_?!"


	28. Battle of the Blackwater (Part 1)

* * *

  **At Harrenhal…**

* * *

   
  
 

The assembled Stark, Lannister and Tully host gather at the Great Hall of Harrenhal discussing strategy. Seated at the table were the great lords and their generals. At the head of the table sat Lord Tywin Lannister, next to him stood his brother Ser Kevan Lannister. Across from him stood Robb Stark, accompanied by his mother, his direwolf Grey Wind, Talisa Maegyr, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Rodrik Cassel, Lord Roose Bolton, Lord Greatjon Umber, Lord Rickard Karstark, his uncle Edmure Tully and his great-uncle the Blackfish. They had been arguing for hours once they received word of the renegade Tyrell fleet led by Ser Loras was rapidly closing in on King's Landing with 28,000 men – outnumbering the city's 9,000 defenders.

"King's Landing will fall an hour after the Knight of the Flowers lands his force," spoke Kevan. "It's not too late for King Daveth and the court to ride west to safety."

"Surrender the Iron Throne?" inquired Tywin.

Robb shook his head. "No. Daveth's not the kind of person who'd simply retreat and leave his holdfast undefended. If anything he'll be more likely see this through to the very end."

"You think it's the better alternative, boy?" Kevan said.

That made the Young Wolf angry as Grey Wind began to growl. "Don't call me boy, Lannister. You'll find that we northerners are more than a match for any southern soldier."

"Winter is coming," chimed Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark.

"Winter is coming," joined in Rodrik, Theon and the other northern lords.

Tywin had to give the Young Wolf credit for courage and the willingness to fight, even if the boy had lacked actual combat experience since his assembled lords are seasoned veterans advising him.

"My father is the Hand of the King, both my sisters are at the capital," continued Robb. "And Daveth has been my friend since we were children. So long as he reigns, the North will always stand ready to assist."

"Your bannerman, the Mountain, wreaked havoc across our home for a long time, Lannister. The Oathkeeper has done more for us during the past year," Edmure said. "The Riverlands stands with King Daveth as well."

One of Tywin's bannermen, Lord Leo Lefford stood up sharply. "And need you forget that the Westerlands also supports King Daveth considering his familial ties?" he shouted. "His mother is the daughter of our lord!"

"I heard Cersei and her son are not on good terms as they used to be," mocked Edmure.

Others stood quickly, a fight looking ready to break out.

"ENOUGH!" roared Tywin.

Tensions briefly subsided.

"Brother," Kevan spoke finally. "As talented as the Oathkeeper may be, the numbers are not in his favor. The Knight of the Flowers outnumbers his forces nearly three-to-one. Better for him to fall back for now than let us see his head, Cersei's head and the other courtiers' heads mounted on the city gates. From what the scouts in the Stormlands tell us, Ser Loras Tyrell will plan to execute them all."

"No, a King who runs will not be King for long. My grandson is a smart lad and a skilled warrior. A Baratheon  _and_  a Lannister. He'll stand and fight."

"At least we finally agree on  _something_ ," Robb remarked.

Kevan shook his head and Tywin rolled his eyes.

"If I know Daveth…" he continued, "he'll mount a defensive strategy and draw in Loras's forces close enough to be lured into a pincer maneuver on broken ground. Cripple the invaders and reduce their numbers long enough for us to move in and do the rest."

"A sound strategy but do you think it'll work?" asked Rodrik.

Greatjon Umber stood tall and bellowed in laughter. "Bah! Daveth may be young but he's never lost a battle, my lords! He'll risk anything at any time. Remember that little mess at Highgarden? That folly was because the Kingslayer diverted from his nephew's battle plans and chose instead to carry it out his own way."

Tywin narrowed his eyes. He didn't like anyone insulting his eldest son Jaime in that manner. But last he heard, Jaime was being escorted to King's Landing by the surrendering Tyrell host before movements ceased.

"If anything," Roose spoke up, "we should begin a forced march to the capital. Should we arrive too late, then I foresee the realm would spiral into chaos. North, south. East and West. The Oathkeeper wields great influence, and many would seek to take advantage."

Tywin nodded at the Lord of the Dreadfort. Placing his fist from his chin, the Old Lion of Casterly Rock finally stood up. "I concur," he said. "All of you assemble your forces. We ride at nightfall. I want a full night's march before Loras Tyrell knows we're on the move."

Robb nodded. "Lord Umber, Lord Karstark. You two come with me to King's Landing. Lord Bolton, I'll need you to maintain a garrison here at Harrenhal should the Reach decide to retaliate against us."

"As you will, my lord," said Greatjon and Rickard.

Roose said nothing, but merely crossed his arms and nodded in acknowledgment. Robb then turned his attention towards Catelyn and Talisa.

"Mother," Robb said. "I need you and Talisa to go back to Riverrun with the Blackfish. I'll be with you shortly."

"Robb…" Catelyn spoke worryingly.

"I'll be all right, mother. We'll all be together again soon, I promise."

Catelyn pulled away from her eldest son and looked into his eyes. "I remember the day you came into this world. Red faced and screaming. And now I find you leading a host to war."

"There was no one else," Robb insisted.

"'No one'?" Catelyn replied almost incredulously. "Who were those men we saw just now?"

"None of them are Starks."

"All of them are seasoned in battle!"

"If you think you could send me back to Winterfell after the King called on us—"

"I would if I could," she sighed in resignation. "How many men do you have?"

"20,000. The Riverlords have roughly 25,000. And the Lannisters have more than 50,000."

"And the capital?"

Robb shook his head. "9,000 according to the letter father and Daveth sent me. If the attack last longer and is reduced to attrition, then King's Landing won't last long without help. If we lose, father dies, Sansa and Arya dies… along with Daveth and his family. I can't let that happen. I won't allow it. But if we make it in time, the Knight of the Flower's men will have no choice but to sue for peace. Father, Sansa and Arya will be safe. We'll all be together again soon, I promise."

Catelyn didn't like that worst-case scenario. But her son's declaration helped to set her mind at ease… even if it's just a little bit.

"You will achieve so much," Catelyn smiled. "Your father would be… proud."

Robb looked down at his feet for a moment before walking out to leave with his troops.

"Gods. Please let the Mother to hear my prayers, bring my family back to me in one piece."

* * *

**Somewhere in the Narrow Sea, en route to King's Landing…**

* * *

 

Aboard the  _Fury_ , Stannis Baratheon and his fleet sailed forth from Storm's End and Tarth in pursuit of the Tyrell fleet from behind. They had already sailed around the Summer Sea and went straight up the Narrow Sea and were already miles ahead. Stannis calculatingly knew his forces would take time to catch them. With any luck, the Baratheon fleet should arrive to cut off Ser Loras Tyrell's escape route and give chase on foot. Having gained control of the Stormlands and Renly's former bannermen, Stannis felt confident at his odds. Ser Davos Seaworth and his son Matthos accompanied Stannis aboard the ship.

"If the wind holds, we'll be able to reach King's Landing in a day," said Davos.

Stannis looked up at the sails. "Will it hold?" he asked.

"I can't make promises for the wind, my lord."

"I admire you, Ser Davos."

"Thank you, my lord. I'm pleased to hear it."

"Some highborn fools call you 'the Onion Knight', thinking they insult you. So you take the onion for your sigil. Sew it on your coat, fly the onion flag."

"My son wishes me to change it," Davos remarked with a sense of humor. "Three mermen with tridents, something like that. I understand why the older families look down at me."

"Do you? Why?"

"My father was a crabber."

" _And_?"

"Sons of lords don't like to break bread with sons of crabbers; and our hands stink."

Stannis folded his arms, looking rather crossed. "And where were those lords when Storm's End starved?!"

Davos was briefly taken aback by Stannis's outburst. "Many fought bravely for your brother. Many fought for the Mad King."

"You defend these men who insult you behind your back."

"Some are happy to do it to my face."

"We were forgotten," Stannis remarked angrily, his voice dipped with a sense of deep bitterness. "Robert and Ned Stark, they were the heroes. The glorious rebels. Marching from battle to battle, liberating towns from the yoke of the Mad King  _while I held Storm's End with only 500 men_."

Davos swore he felt a bead of sweat trickle down his brow and gulped. "No one's forgotten, my lord," he tried to reassure his liege lord.

Stannis, however, wasn't buying it. "No? Robert did. He gave Storm's End to Renly after the war. Renly never fought a day in his life!"

"He was only a boy."

"Then why give him Storm's End," Stannis snapped. He took a moment to calm himself and sighed reminiscently. "First, we ate the horses. We weren't riding anywhere, not with the castle surrounded. We couldn't feed them, so fine. The horses, then the cats. I've never liked cats, so fine. I do like dogs. Good animals, loyal, but we ate them too. Then the rats. The night before you slipped through, I thought my wife was dying. She couldn't speak anymore, she was so frail. And then  _you_  made it through the lines, slipped right through in your little black sail boat with your onions…"

"And some potatoes. Some salted beef, I believe."

"Every man at Storm's End wanted to kiss you that night."

"I was relieved they did not."

"Robert told me to hold Storm's End, so I held it. Then he told me he was giving it to Renly, so I gave it up. Insult or no, I gave it up because Robert was my older brother and he was the King and I've always done my duty. But Daveth saw to it to correct his father's mistakes. He restored my rights to Storm's End and all of the Stormlands. I rule them now. My nephew kept his end of the bargain, so now it's time to keep ours. Have the men double our efforts. We need to reach King's Landing before the Knight of the Flowers beats us there."

"At once, my lord," Davos replied. He turned to his son Matthos and told him to pick up the pace.

Once Stannis was alone again, he returned his gaze to the open waters of the Narrow Sea. "In the meantime, Daveth," he thought aloud, "time to show me what you're capable of when you experience your first battle."

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

  

King Daveth I stood next to Eddard Stark, along with Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Barristan Selmy to examine the map detailing the city's structure. They had all determined that Ser Loras Tyrell will land his forces where the gates are weakest: the Mud Gate. All the preparations were made for the city's defense. And with Tyrion Lannister instructing Wisdom Hallyne of the Alchemists' Guild to provide wildfire after learning of Cersei's plan to catapult it against the Knight of the Flower's fleet. Daveth knew it was a dangerous method, and ordered Tyrion to produce it for his purposes instead of his mother's.

"Should the winds hold, Loras will land here," Daveth pointed to the map. "Our scouts suggest he has more than 28,000 and dozens of ships. Much smaller than the main Redwyne Fleet, but still large enough to cause trouble."

Eddard chimed in. "With this many troops stationed at the garrison and the City Watch to provide support, we will need to keep them at bay long enough for reinforcements to arrive."

"It'll be a close call, Your Grace," said Barristan. "Are you certain with this plan of yours?"

Daveth shook his head. "What other choice do we have, Ser Barristan? If it comes down to attrition then we won't last long. Our only hope is to cripple Ser Loras's fleet, bring his numbers down a bit and hold the line for as long as it takes. Has word been sent to Harrenhal?"

"Word has been sent, Your Grace," said Lucius. "Though Barristan is right about this: it'll be a close call. No matter what strategy we use, many people will die."

"Thousands will die regardless. What of your son, Lord Stark?"

"Robb has already begun a forced march to the capital, Daveth, along with the Lannister and Tully host. They're on their way here as we speak."

Daveth nodded and returned his attention to the map, studying every detail. He had already had a rough month since the riots… and another heinous event that took place not long afterwards.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _Last month…_
> 
> _"Do you have anything to say in your defense?" asked Daveth._
> 
> _His brother, Prince Joffrey Baratheon, had been brought before him in chains in front of the entire court room. The golden-haired teen was rather gloom, upset and furious at being treated this way. Their mother, Cersei, tried to intervene – but was sidelined by the Kingsguard knights loyal to Daveth. It was the final straw._
> 
> _Not only was Joffrey on trial for instigating the city-wide riots, but Daveth learned that Joffrey had Commander Janos Slynt of the City Watch butcher almost every one of their father King Robert's bastards in retaliation against his older brother. All except one had lived, and had already fled the city. Immediately following the massacre, Daveth executed Janos for his role and appointed Bronn as his replacement. The incompetent, vile City Watchmen involved in the controversy were purged, sent to the Wall and replaced with able-bodied competent volunteers. What's more is that Daveth had finally had enough with his brother Joffrey and had him arrested on charges of inciting a riot, murder, sedition, willful contempt of the sovereign, criminal contempt, insubordination, abuse of authority, and conduct unbecoming._
> 
> _The list of crimes laid bare was extraordinary. There was no way out this time._
> 
> _"It should have been me up there!" Joffrey hissed. "I should have been the firstborn! I SHOULD BE ON THE THRONE! WHY MUST YOU ALWAYS OVERSHADOW ME, DAMN YOU?!"_
> 
> _The courtiers were gasping in shock as the cruel, sadistic Joffrey was showing his true colors for all to see. As he finished malicious ranting and raving, Eddard Stark stood beside Daveth and nodded his head. Daveth returned his nod and stood from the Iron Throne._
> 
> _"And yet you understand nothing," Daveth stated. "Not a single hint of what it means to rule. If that's your line of thinking, then you are unworthy of inheriting the throne. Before the eyes of the court and in light of the Seven, you have shown you are much worse than the Mad King Aerys Targaryen."_
> 
> _"AND YOU ARE A FOOL!" Joffrey shouted in anger._
> 
> _Daveth shook his head. Eddard looked at the boy who endangered the life of his daughter Sansa, a deep scowl forming on his face._
> 
> _"Crown Prince Joffrey of the House Baratheon, you have betrayed the express command of your King," Daveth spoke loud for all to hear. "Through your arrogance and blind stupidity, you have spilled innocent blood in my city and have proven yourself to be ill-suited with the responsibilities in the art of governing the realm. You are UNWORTHY of those you have betrayed."_
> 
> _Joffrey stood panting in rage and widened his eyes._
> 
> _"In light of your charges, let it be known that I, Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby sentence my brother Prince Joffrey to live out the rest of his days in permanent exile at Castle Black where he will serve as a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. I denounce him and attain him, I strip him of all rank and titles, and remove him from the royal line of succession."_
> 
> _Joffrey gasped. "NO! YOU CAN'T DO THAT TO ME!" he shouted as two City Watchmen took the disgraced former Prince by the arm and escorted him to Yoren._
> 
> _"DAVETH! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME! YOU CAN'T! I'M YOUR BROTHER!"_
> 
> _Daveth shook his head, sealing his fate. "Not anymore."_
> 
> **ooOoo**

"Your Grace?" asked Barristan.

Daveth shook his head. "It's nothing. Now, our archers will take positions atop the wall and…?"

The door burst opened as Cersei Lannister made her entrance known. "Do you think I'm an idiot?" she hissed at Daveth. "Do you think I'd let you get away with this?!"

Daveth noticed his mother's anger and motioned for his war council to leave and begin preparations. Once they left, Cersei and Daveth were alone.

"My decision is final, mother." he said without looking at her. "I warned you what would happen if you continued allowing him to do as he pleased."

"You shipped off your only sister, and now you've exiled your own brother. You've always hated Joffrey―!"

"―and  _you_  did  _nothing_  to keep him in line! It was a poor choice to force my hand like that."

"Bring him back," Cersei demanded. "Send for the Lord Commander and tell him to allow Joffrey to leave and come home!"

Daveth narrowed his eyes as he met his mother's gaze. "I will not," he said flatly. "I have a battle to fight, and I will not afford such distractions at this time since I will be taking part on the battlefield."

"You wish to die that badly?"

"On the contrary. I'm doing everything in my power to bring this nonsense to a close. And all will be right as rain once more."

Cersei started to smile. Daveth noticed it, and it was starting to somewhat unnerve him.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked.

"Because I'm happy! A Lannister always pays her debts, my son. You've been scheming against me since the day you took the throne. You sold Myrcella, banished Joffrey. The Stark girl you like. You like her very much? Don't worry, she'll be treated gently enough. Every wound I suffer, she'll suffer too."

_'Sansa?'_  thought Daveth. He slowly pressed against the table and lifted himself up, turning to face his mother as he figured out what Cersei intended to do with Sansa. "If you or your sycophants think you can do as you please… well, dearest mother, let me point out that scale tips two ways," he said. His tone was calm, flat, uncaring; he'd reached for his grandfather's voice and found it. "Whatever happens to Sansa happens to you as well, and that includes the beatings and rapes."

Cersei had not expected that. "You wouldn't dare!"

Daveth crept forward towards Cersei, his blue eyes started directly into her green ones. "Would I now? Need I point out that it was  _you_  who's been scheming against me from the very beginning? How you sought to undermine me? Who knows? Maybe you even plan to have me killed and rule through Tommen. Do you hate me so much? Do I remind you of father?"

In a fit of cold rage, Cersei's hand flashed at Daveth's face, but he quickly caught her wrist and bent it back until she cried out.

"How unbecoming of you. You were my own mother, and I've done all I could to make you happy. But I return I get nothing from cold scorning, scowls and ridicule. Whatever affection I had for you, you've ended that. Try anything else and you will find that Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts. Now get out."

He released his grip on Cersei and stormed out of the room. Daveth made his way back to the armory with a thousand armored feet marching behind him and worked to put on his armor. His shining black armor donning a golden crowned stag on the breastplate, gold linings and gold cloak were fastened on. His Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer was at his left hip, and Daveth now took the black helm with large golden antlers on each side in his arm.

***DING!***

***DING!***

***DING!***

"And now it begins," he murmured quietly.

The ringing of the bells warned the inhabitants of King's Landing that the invading Tyrell fleet was now within plain sight entering Blackwater Bay. Soldiers and City Watchmen were scrambling, getting themselves into position. The Battle of the Blackwater has now begun.


	29. Battle of the Blackwater (Part 2)

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

King Daveth, Eddard, Ser Barristan, Ser Lucius and Tyrion all readied themselves for battle. Eddard assembled his entire household guard as Daveth had finished putting on the last of his armor while Tyrion himself was getting fitted for battle. His squire, Podrick Payne, fastened the last buckle on the Imp's Lannister armor.

"You remind me so much of your father, Your Grace," Eddard commented.

Daveth looked at his Hand. "I'll take that as a compliment, Lord Stark."

Varys soon arrived with a detailed map of the Red Keep. "The map you asked for," announced the eunuch.

Eddard looked closely. "There must be 20 miles of tunnels beneath the city."

"50, actually. The Targaryens built this city to withstand a siege and to provide escape if necessary."

"I've no intention of escaping," Daveth said. "King's Landing is my home. I was born here. And I'll fight with everything I've got to ensure it remains standing."

"And if the ship goes down, we'll go with her," Tyrion remarked humorously.

Eddard didn't find any jokes amusing at the moment. The siege was about to begin momentarily.

"I'm sure many captains say the same while their ship is afloat," Lucius said.

Daveth shook his head, and turned his attention to his officers. "All right. You remember the plan. You all know what we're up against. We're outnumbered, but Ser Loras Tyrell is blinded with vengeance. He's bound to make a mistake. When you see an opening, you take it. But don't do anything reckless during the battle. Hold them back until reinforcements arrive."

All nodded and made their way to the Mud Gate. Once down past the Great Hall, a voice called out for them.

"Father! Your Grace!"

  

Daveth and Eddard turned to see Sansa, Arya and Shae coming from behind to see them off. They had been singing in the sept all morning since the first report of enemy sails reached the castle. The sound of their voices mingled with the whicker of horses, the clank of steel, and the groaning hinges of the great bronze gates to make a strange and fearful music. In the sept they sing for the Mother's mercy but on the walls it's the Warrior they pray to, and all in silence.

"Sansa? Arya?" Eddard said surprised as both his daughters hugged him. "What are you two doing here? You should be with the other highborn ladies in Maegor's Holdfast."

"The Queen Mother sent for us to see King Daveth off," Sansa answered.

Arya rolled her eyes in annoyance. "To see  _both of you off_ ," she corrected.

"Of course she did," Daveth shrugged. "Still, I have to agree with your father that you two should be safe in Maegor's so long as the plan goes accordingly."

"Why can't I come help?" Arya demanded. "I've gotten good with—"

"Arya!" Eddard barked. "My answer is still 'no'! You're my daughters and I will not allow any harm to come to you."

Arya diverted her eyes in disappointment, grumbling quietly so as not to be heard.

"I will pray for your safe return, father," Sansa said worryingly. "And you, Your Grace."

Both Eddard and Daveth nodded as Tyrion and Shae had their own tender moment.

"Stay safe, my lady," Tyrion said.

"And you, my lion," Shae reciprocated.

Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius motioned to King Daveth and Eddard Stark. "Your Grace. Lord Hand. It's time."

"Understood," Eddard said. "Your Grace."

"I know," Daveth replied.

Shae had already escorted Arya back to Maegor's Holfast. But before Eddard and Daveth could leave, the Oathkeeper felt a slight tug on his arm. He looked over his shoulder to see Sansa holding onto him.

"Daveth," she spoke innocently, full of worry. "Where will you be…?"

He didn't like distractions, but knowing it could possibly be their last chance to talk… "Your father and I will be in the vanguard where the fighting is thickest."

That didn't seem to make her feel better. "Then―"

"Don't worry, little dove. It'll be all right, I'm certain of it."

Sansa steadily loosened her grip on his arm, but to her surprise Daveth took her hand into his own. "When the fighting is done, we can proceed with the royal wedding. One you've always wanted," he promised her, "Everything will be exactly the way it should be."

Sansa felt her spirit lift a bit, allowing a brief smile. "Just promise me one thing," she asked.

"What is it?"

"Promise… promise me you and father will come back safely."

Daveth frowned and diverted his eyes briefly; he didn't want to make promises he couldn't be able to keep. This was considered a minor skirmish against insurgents still loyal to his late traitorous uncle Renly Baratheon commanded by his lover Loras Tyrell. The Tyrell host commanded 28,000 men and a few dozen ships.

"I can't promise anything," he said finally, "but I'll see what I can do."

Daveth placed one finger under Sansa's chin, tipped her face up to face his. Sansa looked her at betrothed. Not knowing what drove him during that brief moment, Daveth captured Sansa's lips in a kiss. His was gentle, undemanding, asking only for what Sansa was willing to give. She didn't hesitate to reply. The Stark maiden closed her eyes as she felt tears welling up and placed her hands on Daveth's shoulders, pouring every ounce of emotion she had into such an act of affection. She was going to cherish every detail and hold it close to her heart.

Eddard watched the two as Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius had already left to the battlements. In his heart the Stark patriarch knew and had seen how much his eldest daughter matured into a young woman in her own right since they arrived in King's Landing last year when he accepted the late King Robert Baratheon's offer to be Hand of the King and marry his daughter to Robert's eldest son and heir; Eddard, in his own way, was somehow reminded of his own wife Catelyn. Sansa greatly resembled her mother, inheriting Cat's rich autumn auburn hair and deep Tully blue eyes. She had longed surpassed her in terms of beauty a long time ago when Eddard wasn't looking. And yet somehow, it made him feel sad. Eddard no longer saw a little girl standing before him but a young woman. He never got the chance to thank his long departed friend Robert for making a smart arrangement to wed their children.

_'If only you could see them now, Robert,'_  Eddard thought.

Sansa and Daveth pulled away, taking a moment to catch their breath.

"Come back to me," Sansa asked.

"You have my word," he gave a slow nod. Daveth pulled away from Sansa's grip and marched onto the battlements with Eddard.

Sansa stayed behind, watching her father and betrothed. She crossed her fingers and felt her lip quiver with fear and worry.

Shae came back to retrieve Sansa. "Some of those boys will never come back," she said.

"Gods, please let my father and beloved Daveth return."

Shae couldn't help but feel her own heart ache in sympathy. "Shh. Come, my lady."

She took Sansa by the hand and escorted her back to Maegor's Holdfast, where they would gather with the other highborn ladies along with Queen Mother Cersei Lannister to wait out the storm raging outside.

_'Gentle Mother, font of mercy,'_  Sansa prayed silently,  _'save our sons from war, we pray; stay the swords and stay the arrows; let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray; soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.'_

* * *

**Within the Blackwater Bay…**

* * *

Blackwater Bay was rough and choppy, whitecaps everywhere.  _Queen of Thornes_  rode the flood tide, her sail cracking and snapping at each shift of wind.  _Defender of the March_  and  _Reach Marshal_  sailed beside her, no more than twenty yards between their hulls. The soldiers of House Redywne knew how to keep a line. Ser Loras took pride in that. Across the sea worhorns boomed like the calls of monstrous sea serpents, repeated ship to ship.

"Bring down the sail!" called out Ser Wilas Redwyne. "Lower mast! Oarsmen to your oars!"

The deck of  _Queen of Thrones_  churned as crewmen ran to their ranks, pushing through the soldiers who always seemed to be in the way no matter where they stood. He decreed that they would enter the river on oars alone, so as not to expose their sails to the scorpions and spitfires on the walls of King's Landing. The warhorns sounded again, commands drifting back from the  _Defender of the March_.

"Out oars," he shouted again. "Form line!"

A hundred blades dipped down into the water as the oarmaster's drum began to boom. The sound was like the beating of a great slow heart, and the oars moved at every stroke, a hundred men pulling as one. With twice as many ships as the Oathkeeper, Ser Wilas believed there was no need for caution or deceptive tactics. He organized the small fraction of the Redwwne Fleet into ten lines of battle, each of ten to fifteen ships. The first two lines would sweep up the river to engage and destroy Daveth's little fleet. Those that followed would land companies of archers and spearmen beneath the city walls, and only then join the fight on the river. The smaller, slower ships to the rear would ferry over the main part of Loras's host from the south bank.

"This will be much easier than I thought," Loras spoke with confidence.

His men were taking in the Knight of the Flowers' confidence and combat prowess. The young heir to Highgarden and the former Lord Commander of Renly Baratheon's Kingsguard was still one of the most skilled knights in all of Westeros, despite losing twice to Daveth Baratheon and Brienne of Tarth individually. Privately, however, Loras's confident smirk turned into a frown.

"Perhaps a bit too easy…"

Beyond the line of warships, Loras could see the Red Keep upon Aegon's High Hill against darkened skies as the moonlight shone bright, with the mouth of the Blackwater Rush opening out below. Across the river the south shore was black with men and horses, stirring like angry ants as they caught sight of the approaching ships. Wooden spike barricades had been set along the shore and further outwards to impede the approach of invading troops and ground their rowboats. Trumpets sounded from among them, tiny and brazen, soon swallowed by the roar of a thousand shouts.

* * *

**At the Red Keep's battlements…**

* * *

      
  

"Lord Stannis is on his way with the fleet, Your Grace," Ser Lucius informed.

Daveth nodded. "Good. Have the men ready for the first wave," he commanded before turning to a Lannister archer. "Captain, get your archers into position and await my command."

The Captain nodded. "Archers! On me!"

***DISTANT DRUMS BEAT!***

***DISTANT DRUMS BEAT!***

"Why aren't they here?" asked Lancel. "The fleet should have been here right now."

"We're extremely busy at the moment, Cousin," interjected Tyrion.

Eddard turned to his host. "Tomard, Cayn. Gather the others and have them assembled with the soldiers at the Mud Gate."

"Yes, my lord," they both replied and rushed with the Stark household guards. "Ser Barristan, be sure to remain by His Grace's side."

Barristan nodded in acknowledgment as the old knight stood alongside Daveth, who in turn nodded at his post.

"Clegane," Daveth motioned to Sandor. "Get your men ready. You'll be leading the first group of men. Do not let a single one of Loras's troops past that gate. Ser Lancel, go with him."

"So long as I have people to kill," Sandor replied gruffly, gathering his blade and menacing looking hound helmet. Lancel followed not too far behind.

"Uncle Tyrion, has your sellsword been properly assigned to his post?"

Tyrion nodded. "Don't fret, nephew. Bronn knows a siege better than most of us here. Well, except perhaps Ned Stark. Once I give the signal, Bronn will light the fire."

"What fire?" Eddard asked.

On cue, Wisdom Hallyne made his way up the steps and handed Daveth a lit torch. As the Young Stag handed it to Tyrion, that's when Eddard realized what they were up to as a rather small boat oozing green substance into the water came into view. He recognized that substance anywhere, but wasn't informed of the plot himself.

"Wildfire?" he said surprised. "Your Grace—!"

"Calm yourself, Ned," Daveth said. "Once the Knight of the Flowers's ships are within range, Tyrion will give the signal allowing Bronn to fire a flaming arrow onto that vessel," he points to the boat. "The wildfire stored onboard will be ignited by the arrow and trigger an explosion that should devastate much of Loras's fleet. He will then have no choice but to launch a costly ground offensive, though our own defenses will take a decisive hit as well once they reach our shores."

"And then?"

"And then we rain fire down upon them."

* * *

**Inside Maegor's Holdfast…**

* * *

Inside the castle-within-a-castle, Sansa, Arya and Shae were gathered with the other highborn ladies. Individually they could hear sniffling, whimpers and murmuring among those in attendance. Some had even brought their children, babies even.

"I should be out there with father," Arya complained. A bit frustrated, a bit worried. "Yet we're confined here with Cersei."

"She hates me," Sansa added. "She hates us both."

"Less than she hates everyone else in the south."

"I doubt it."

Shae shook her head. "Perhaps she's simply jealous of you."

"Why would she be jealous?" Sansa asked confused.

Before Shae could open her mouth, Cersei Lannister sat on the other side of the room with Tommen sitting beside her. Her gown was crimson satin with gold linings, the traditional colors of House Lannister. Masses of blonde hair had been tied into a pony tail which was kept around one side of her shoulder, but there were points of color on her cheeks.

 

"Sansa," Cersei observed. "I was wondering where our little dove had flown. You look pale, child. Is your red flower still blooming?"

Sansa felt her cheeks redden, half in embarrassment and humiliation. Cersei was quite drunk, Sansa could determine that much. She heard gossip that the Queen Mother had gotten into a very heated argument after Joffrey was exiled to the Wall a couple days ago.

"You leave her alone!" shouted Arya, earning her Cersei's ire.

"Arya!" Sansa hushed before returning her gaze to her soon-to-be mother-in-law. "It is, Your Grace."

"Fitting, isn't it? The men will bleed out there and you will bleed in here," she mocked as she twirled her cup. Cersei grabbed another cup and held it out. "Pour Lady Sansa some wine."

"I'm not thirsty, Your Grace," Sansa politely declined.

"So? I didn't offer you water."

Sansa sat beside Cersei and reluctantly accepted the cup, not wanting to risk antagonizing her any further. The Stark maiden took a small sip, familiarizing herself with the taste once again. She hadn't had some wine since her first date with Daveth near the banks of the Trident she had almost forgotten.

"Won't your guards protect us?"

Cersei gave a sideways look. "And who will protect us from my guards? Loyal sellswords are rare as virgin whores. If the battle is lost, my guards will trip on those crimson cloaks in their haste to rip them off. They'll steal what they can and flee, along with the serving men, washerwomen, and stableboys, all out to save their own worthless hides."

"True knights would never harm women and children."

The words rang hollow in her ears even as she said them. Cersei seemed to find that quite amusing. "'True knights'. Huh! Why don't you just eat your broth like a good girl and wait for Symeon Star-Eyes and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight to come rescue you, sweetling. I'm sure it won't be very long before my son fulfills your every desire. More wine."

Another steward poured Sansa a second cup; she didn't want to drink this stuff, but found herself doing so anyway.

_'Gods be good, never let me have to swallow this stuff during a siege,'_  Sansa thought as she felt the wine pour down her throat. The wine was strong and sweet, and Sansa felt her head start to spin.

"Not like that. Drink, girl."

* * *

**Back outside…**

* * *

Daveth Baratheon had been narrowing his eyes, scanning the open waters of the Blackwater. The fog made it difficult to see. After nearly an hour, he final spots the Redwyne Fleet approaching.

"There they are!" he shouted.

Men began scrambling and shouting.

"Archers to their marks," Eddard commanded.

"Archers, to your marks!"

"Archers!"

"Nock your arrows!"

"Nock arrows!"

"Hold fast!" Daveth shouted.

"Hold fast!" another soldier answered.

Lancel started looking a little worried. "Your Grace? Shouldn't we—?"

Daveth whipped around to stare Lancel down. "I said,  _hold fast._ "

Eddard continued barking orders. "Get the boulders ready, and hold fast!"

"Boulders ready!"

"Hold fast!" another soldier answered.

* * *

**Outside the Blackwater…**

* * *

Aboard the  _Queen of Thornes_ , Ser Wilas Redwyne looked into the distance of the Blackwater, finally noticing a small boat coming his way.

"Archers, stand to!" he commanded.

"Man the below!" another troop hollered.

"Nock!"

"Nock and set!"

"Draw!" Wilas shouted, but paused. "Hold."

"Hold!"

Wilas made his way further to the side of the deck of the ship, taking a much closer look at the smaller vessel sailing past them. To the Redwyne captain's surprise, Wilas saw no one.

"There's no one on board," he realized. It was at that moment when Wilas finally realize the green substance pouring into the water. "Wildfire," he grimaced as he tasted a trap.

Burning pitch was one thing, wildfire quite another. Evil stuff, and well-nigh unquenchable. Smother it under a cloak and the cloak took fire; slap at a fleck of it with your palm and your hand was aflame. "Piss on wildfire and your cock burns off," old seamen liked to say. Ser Wilas had seen the Mad King's use of wildfire to execute his prisoners twenty years ago and hoped not to see it again; but alas, it was far too late.

"Steer clear! Steer clear!" Wilas warned.

The small boat carrying the wildfire had sailed its way to the center of the Redwyne Fleet. Men-at-arms were scrambling on the  _Queen of Thorne_ 's deck, trying to steer the fleet into different directions. From atop the Red Keep's battlements, a torch was seen being thrown off the edge following a whooshing noise.

***WHOOOSH!***

Ser Wilas looked up and noticed a flaming arrow flying overhead towards the boat. As it landed, the wildfire shot up and spread from ship to ship throughout the Redwyne Fleet.

"ABANDON SHIP! ABANDON SHIP—!"

***BOOM!***

A flash of green lit up the night from the Blackwater Rush to the Red Keep's battlements; Ser Wilas was thrown overboard due to the impact of the explosion. And with the small boat being so close to the center, it cause a chain reaction as it resulted in several other explosions that could be seen as far as the main warship  _Defender of the March_. Although some of the ships were able to turn away, they were not fast enough to evade the wildfire. Screams, wails, shouts and shrieks filled the air. Aboard the  _Defender of the March_ , Loras looked at the devastation. He knew the Oathkeeper was tough, but he hadn't expected Daveth to deploy the use of wildfire.

"All those people, my men…" he said before snarling at his captains. "Prepare a landing party. We're not that far from the main gates and the Oathkeeper played his little trick."

"Ser Loras…"

"He knows he could only use it once," he finished. "If we push to the Mud Gate before their archers inflict serious damage, we can end this in one swift stroke. We've still got the numbers, they don't." Loras Tyrell strode towards the netting at the side of the  _Defender of the March_  and threw down the ladders to the rowboats below before turning to rally his troops. "All of you assembled still feel the sting of loss as I have; our true King, Renly Baratheon, was killed by our enemies over there! Gaze upon the Oathkeeper and his men, but do not fear them! Today we march on King's Landing and avenge the death of King Renly! But most of all, we send a strong message that we have not forgotten this heinous crime and bring down the tyranny of the Black Lion and his Lannister lackeys!"

The men all raised their weapons and cheered loudly, as Loras climbed overboard and began descending into the rowboats. Soon enough his army were rowing towards the shore.

* * *

**Back inside Maegor's Holdfast…**

* * *

Cersei beckoned for another cup of wine for herself, a golden vintage from the Arbor, fruity and rich. She was drinking heavily, but the wine only seemed to make her more beautiful; her cheeks were flushed, and her green eyes had a bright, feverish heat to them as she looked down the hall. Cersei looked at Sansa who was seen holding hands with the other highborn ladies, eyes closed and heads down in prayer. Somehow it seemed to irritate her.

"Sansa," she called out, "come here, little dove."

Sansa opened her eyes and obeyed Cersei's call. "Your Grace," she politely curtsied.

"What are you doing?" Cersei asks rather drunk.

"Praying."

"You think you're so perfect, aren't you? 'Praying'. Did you use that to seduce my eldest son? Did you pray that Daveth would turn against me?"

Sansa's eyes widened and blushed, a mix of embarrassment and anger. "I-I… I have done no such thing, Your Grace," she stammered trying to keep her emotions in check. "I only—"

"Tell me. What exactly are you actually praying for?"

"For the Gods to have mercy on us all, of course."

Cersei raised an eyebrow. "Oh. On all of us?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Sansa nodded.

"Even me?"

Sansa felt the pit of her stomach turn, understanding what Daveth told her about Cersei's change in behavior meant. Regardless, the Stark maiden reminded herself of her manners as a lady and bit her tongue.

"Of course, Your Grace," she finally said.

"Even Daveth?"

Sansa replied without hesitation. "With all my heart. Daveth is my—"

"Oh, shut up, you little fool," Cersei said rather rudely. "I see the way you look at him, and how he looks at you. 'Praying to the Gods to have mercy on us all.' You pray for my son simply because he treats you so sweetly?"

Arya had enough of Cersei's insults. "Seven hells, forgive me, but you Your Grace are a bitch. A cruel, cruel bitch! Why must you always be a stuck-up, short-sighted bitch?"

Everyone in the room was horrified by Arya's outburst, even Sansa. Cersei did not appreciate the Stark girl's slurs hurled at her.

"The Gods have no mercy. That's why they're Gods," Cersei ignored her. "My father told me that when he caught me praying. My mother died thirty-three years ago, you see. I didn't really understand the concept of death back then, the finality of it. But I thought that if I prayed very, very hard, the Gods would return my mother to me. I was four years old."

Sansa was rather surprised. "Your father doesn't believe in the Gods?" she asked.

"He believes in them, he just doesn't like them very much." The Lioness looked over the other highborn ladies in attendance. "I should have been born a man," she said scornfully. "Jaime once told me that he only feels truly alive in battle and in bed. I'd rather face 1,000 swords than be shut up inside with this flock of frightened hens."

"Well at least we agree on  _something_ ," commented Arya sarcastically.

Sansa shook her head. "But these are your guests under your protection. You asked them here."

"It was  _expected_ of me, as it will be of  _you_  if you ever become Daveth's Queen. If my eldest son, your bloody father and my wretched brother should somehow prevail out there, then these hens will graciously return to their husbands' cocks and crow of how my courage inspired them, lifted their spirits and some may survive this battle. So it behooves me to give their women my protection."

"And if the city should fall?"

"You'd like to see that happen wouldn't you?" Cersei leaned in, not bothering to wait for a reply. "The Red Keep should hold for a time, long enough for me to go to the walls and yield to Ser Loras Tyrell in person. That will spare us the worst. If it were anyone else outside those gates, I might have hoped for a private audience. But the Knight of the Flowers's blood is running high and he won't stop until he has Daveth's head on a platter. I'd have a better chance of seducing his bannermen, considering he's a known degenerate and pillow-biter."

Sansa couldn't believe her ears, neither could Arya. Both of their faces were equally masked with shock at what Cersei had just described about what would occur if King's Landing were to ever fall to an invading force.

"Did I shock you, little dove? Tears, humph!" Cersei laughed mockingly, sipping her wine. "The woman's weapon, whereas a man's weapon is a sword. And that tells us all you need to know, doesn't it?"

"Men must be brave," said Sansa. "They ride out and fight terrible people trying to kill you…"

Cersei studied the wives, daughter, and mothers who filled the benches. "Tears aren't a woman's only weapon. The best one lies between your legs. Learn how to use it."

Sansa was horrified and sipped her wine rather quickly, trying to shake Cersei's thoughts from her mind. She tried to think of one of Daveth's lessons.

_"Don't try to be a Queen like mother,"_  Sansa remembered Daveth telling her one day.  _"If you are ever to become Queen, then learn how to adapt to your new surroundings. You will no doubt face hardship in your life, little dove, as we all do, but I believe with enough practice you could be a Queen I know you can be. Learn how to be one in your own right."_

"Do you have any notion of what happens when a city is sacked?"

Sansa shook her head.

"No, you wouldn't, would you?" Cersei continued mocking her. "If Maegor's Holdfast should fall before Loras comes up, why then, most of these fine women should be in for a bit of rape, I'd say. Half of them will have bastards in their bellies come the morning. You'll be glad of your red flower then. When a man's blood is up, anything with tits looks good. A precious thing like you will look very,  _very_  good. A slice of cake just waiting to be eaten. And you should never rule out mutilation, torture, and murder at times like these."

"Daveth would never let that happen to us," Sansa proclaimed. "Our father would never let that happen."

Cersei frowned. "You really believe that, don't you?"

"Our father fought two wars," Arya pointed out confidently. "This one's gonna be no different than any of the rest!"

Sansa shook her head and placed her cup of wine down, deciding not to further add more fuel to the fire – but she is certain that she will have a word with Daveth about Cersei's drunken ranting when this is over;  _if_  this is over. Her head was already spinning from the wine consumption, but it helped take her mind off the events taking place outside. The door opened, revealing Ser Lancel Lannister.

"Your Grace!" he panted.

Cersei looked at her cousin. "What news?"

"His Grace has set the river afire. Hundreds of ships are burning, maybe more. But…" he leaned in to whisper quietly. "Ser Loras and his troops have landed outside the city walls with 14,000 men to mount an aggressive charge."

"Where is Daveth?"

"He's on the field of battle holding the Mud Gate with Lord Stark and his Kingsguard. They're putting up a strong defense, but their numbers were cut in half from 9,000 to 4,500 and are steadily dropping."

Cersei narrowed her eyes. "Bring him back inside at once."

Lancel looked surprise. "But, Your Grace…"

"But what?"

"The King's presence is good for morale."

"Bring him back to his chambers now."

"But I…"

" _NOW_!"

* * *

**Outside the Red Keep…**

* * *

***CLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

"Gah! Seven hells, what a stubborn bunch!" Daveth panted.

***THRUST!***

***PIERCE!***

***SWING!***

***SLASH!***

Wielding his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer, the Young Stag's body was fueled by raging levels of adrenaline. Spinning, twisting and turning, he parried and countered each strike aimed at him and cut down most Tyrell soldiers. But the fighting had been going on for hours and Daveth's party of Lannister soldiers were reduced by half. The Knight of the Flowers had clearly been preparing for this moment and his men were seen coming from seemingly every direction at once. They pulled back to regroup and prepared to charge again. Eddard Stark, wielding his family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword Ice, swung with quick precision and took down his fair share of soldiers intending to breach the Mud Gate. Alongside him was Ser Barristan Selmy, the old knight lending his 40 years of battlefield experience to aid the Hand of the King and the Oathkeeper.

***SWING!***

***SLASH!***

***PARRY!***

***THRUST!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

"Give them no quarter!" shouted Ser Lucius to his exhausted men. The Old Bull wielded a spike club and swung with such power.

***SWING!***

***BAM!***

***POW!***

***CLASH!***

***CRUNCH!***

Lucius, battered and bruised, swung his spiked club directly against the skull of the enemy soldier in front of him with tremendous force that it caved in the parietal bone, killing the man instantaneously. Ser Mandon Moore and Ser Meryn Trant stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind King Daveth, making sure that no one tried to outflank the Young Stag as Eddard guarded the left with Barristan and Lucius guarded the right.

"Stand your ground! Don't let any of them through!" Eddard rallied, pulling Ice from one of the enemy soldier's corpse.

***CLASH!***

***SWING!***

***SLASH!***

***THRUST!***

***CLANG!***

***PARRY!***

***SLASH!***

Steel clashed, shields were smashed against the others'. Daveth Baratheon, Eddard Stark, Barristan Selmy and Lucius Blackmyre stood in a circular formation; each of them mirroring each other's movements; yet the prolonged hours of fighting was taking its toll. They were showing signs of exhaustion.

"This is… not looking good," Barristan panted.

Lucius wheezed as he tried to catch his breath. "Ser Loras Tyrell is… tough, but a boy is… still a boy."

Daveth looked at his surroundings. The shore was littered with dozens, if not hundreds of bodies of his own men. Arrows were still flying overhead and stones were being dropped. Although they were successful in wiping out most of the rebel Redywne Fleet, Ser Loras Tyrell still outnumbered him and was beginning to mobilize his forces for another offense. At that moment, a weary Daveth saw Lancel returning from the Red Keep.

"Your Grace," he spoke. "The Queen Mother has sent me to bring you back to the Red Keep."

Daveth was incensed by this sudden request from his mother. "You're telling me that my own mother is demanding that I  _abandon my own men_ , Ser Lancel?"

"She was rather insistent—"

"No."

"But, Your Grace…"

***BAM!***

Daveth didn't give Lancel a moment to reply. He reared his head back and quickly brought it down with enough momentum to head-butt Lancel right in the face. The Lannister felt his feet give out from under him and fell to the ground, shouting as he brought both hands to cover his bloody nose.

"In case you had forgotten, we are in the midst of battle! To simply have me recalled to the Red Keep would seriously damage troop morale, jeopardize our position and undermine our efforts to hold the line! If you cannot perform your sworn duties as a knight, then you are of no use to me. I cannot stomach the presence of imbeciles, especially those who can't think for themselves."

Lancel slowly staggered to his feet.

"Now," Daveth said more calmly, "be a good soldier and relay my answer to the Queen Mother.  _Now_."

Not wanting to provoke the Oathkeeper, Lancel, still holding his nose, humiliatingly left to give Cersei the King's answer. As the city's defenders were on their knees and backs pressed against the gate, bloodied, bruised and exhausted, a messenger quickly arrived to the field.

"Your Grace! I bring news! Our scouts report that our allies have been seen marching past Rosby! Reinforcements are inbound!" the messenger reported.

Daveth looked at what was left of his men, all were bloodied, wounded, tired or dead. Things were getting rather desperate, and everyone came to the same conclusion: this fight was to the death. "Then we make our stand here," he announced. "Men, form up. Men! Gather 'round."

Tired and wounded, the remaining Lannister soldiers, City Watchmen and several Kingsguard knights gathered around their King. Daveth briefly closed his eyes and inhaled before exhaling through his nostrils.

"Look across the shores. You know what we face. We're outnumbered, we're tired, and we're surrounded on all sides. You know it, I know it, they know it. But this is bigger than their hate… their treason. They've come to take away your homes, your families, your very lives. But we are saying ' _no_ '! We didn't want this, but they've forced our hand. They don't get to decide our fate!  _We_  do! No one has the right to take that away from us! The time has come to seize the opportunity laid bare before us and put an end to these sycophants!"

One by one, the city's defenders rose to their feet and gathered around the King.

"We must hold the line as long as it takes until reinforcements arrive! But remember this: win or lose, know that it has been my proudest honor to fight alongside you as your King. Every single one of you here represents the new generation of heroes in your own right! We make it through this, drinks are on me. OURS IS THE FURY!" rallied the Oathkeeper, raising his sword up high as he recited the words of House Baratheon.

"Ours is the Fury!" his soldiers cheered loudly.

"Oathkeeper! Oathkeeper! Oathkeeper!" they began chanting.

Renewed with a sense of hope and empowered with purpose, the last remaining defenders quickly rallied to King Daveth's side and prepared themselves for a final stand as the enemy began charging into view, with Ser Loras Tyrell himself riding into battle. Shields were raised, swords and spears pointed forward, and the Baratheon host stood their ground; readying themselves to take the hit.

* * *

**Back inside Maegor's Holdfast…**

* * *

When Ser Lancel Lannister told Cersei Lannister that Daveth had refused her summons, she turned her empty wine cup. Lancel's face was soaked with the blood seeping from his nose. When he had arrived in the hall, the sight of him made some of the guests scream.

"Where is my son?" Cersei demanded.

Lancel shook his head. "Outside the Mud Gate with all that's left of his men. He still intends to fight and is determined to see it through to the end."

"Bring him inside now."

"No!" Lancel was so angry he forgot to keep his voice down. Heads turned toward them as he shouted, "We'll have the Mud Gate all over again. Let him stay where he is, he's the King―"

" _He is still my son!_ " Cersei rose to her feet. "You claim to be a Lannister as I am, Cousin? Then prove it. Bring Daveth back inside  _NOW!_ "

"Now you listen to me―!" Lancel shouted.

***BAM!***

****

Cersei slammed her open palm into his face. Lancel cried out in pain as the Queen Mother left the room with Tommen in tow. She spared Sansa and Arya not so much as a glance. Several women and their children were crying. Sansa felt she had to do something and rose to her feet.

"Don't be afraid," she tried to reassure them. "The Queen Mother has raised the drawbridge. This is the safest place we can be."

One of the women, a wife of a lesser lord, began demanding answers. "What's happened? What did the Lannister boy mean? Is the Oathkeeper hurt? Is the city about to fall?"

"Tell us!" someone else shouted.

Sansa calmly raised her hands for quiet. "His Grace, King Daveth Baratheon the Oathkeeper is not hurt. He's fighting bravely out there to protect us. His knights are down there with him. My father, the Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, is down there with him as well. Ser Barristan the Bold is with him. Ser Lucius the Bull is with him," she tried to soothe them. "Together they will save the city. Shall we sing them a hymn?"

One by one, the ladies slowly gathered around Sansa Stark. Steadying herself and taking a deep breath, Sansa started to sing.

> _Gentle Mother, font of mercy,_  
>  _Save our sons from war, we pray._ _  
> _ _Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_ _  
> _ _Let them know a better day._

As soon as the Stark maiden sang, her sister Arya, her handmaiden Shae and the rest of the highborn ladies found themselves joining in to sing in unison.

> _Gentle Mother, strength of women,_ __  
> _Help our daughters through this fray._ __  
> _Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,_ __  
> _Teach us all a kinder way._ __  
> _Gentle Mother, font of mercy_ __  
> _Save our sons from war, we pray._ _  
> _ _Stay the swords and stay the arrows,_ _  
> _ _Let them know a better day._

In the midst of their hymn, Sansa felt worried about the safety of both her father and Daveth as combatant noises were faintly heard outside.  _'Please remember your promise to come back.'_

* * *

**Back outside…**

* * *

***CLASH!***

***SWING!***

***THRUST!***

***SWISH!***

***SLASH!***

***PIERCE!***

Eddard Stark, Lucius Blackmyre and Barristan Selmy were fighting overwhelming numbers. Ten, fifteen and twenty fell in battle for every one of their own that also fell.

***SLASH!***

***THRUST!***

***PIERCE!***

***SWING!***

Eddard received a wound in his right leg when one of the Tyrell soldiers stabbed him from behind and looked as if he could barely stand; Ser Lucius sustained multiple stab wounds but refused to go down as he provided cover for the Hand of the King. Tyrion struggled to hold his own against a simple soldier, but was saved by his squire Pod. Ser Barristan himself earned several scratches, but was surprisingly able to hold his own. The old knight looked to his left and he saw both King Daveth I Baratheon and Ser Loras Tyrell battling each other in a vicious one-on-one fight, bringing forth old memories of how Robert Baratheon faced off against Prince Rhaegar Targaryen during the Battle of the Trident all those years ago.

***CLASH!***

***PARRY!***

***THRUST!***

***SLASH!***

Daveth and Loras were locked in a bitter duel, each seeking to outmaneuver the other as their blades clashed.

***SWISH!***

***THRUST!***

***SWING!***

***PARRY!***

***SLASH!***

***PARRY!***

"Oathkeeper," Loras strained. "Somehow I guess we both knew it would come to this. When we competed in the joust, there was a look in your eye that I couldn't quite make out. No matter; all of this started because of you! Renly died because of  _you_!"

" _I'M_  not the one who whispered such poisonous ideas into my Uncle's head nor did I turn one family against another, pillow biter!" shouted Daveth. "You two started a war of your own volition and now I'm going to finish it!"

***THRUST!***

***CLANG!***

***PARRY!***

***SWISH!***

***SLASH!***

***THRUST!***

Loras brought his blade down, but Daveth deflected it with Stormbringer. The Oathkeeper thrusted forward, but was brushed aside by the Knight of the Flowers.

***CLASH!***

***SLASH!***

***PARRY!***

***SWISH!***

***THRUST!***

Both young men rushed each other and swung their swords, the two flashing sparks as their blades collided. Ser Loras was able to kick Daveth hard in the chest, sending him stumbling backwards. The Young Stag managed to regain his balance fast enough to backhand Loras across the face when he charged at him; returning the combatants back to square one. As more of Loras's men came pouring onto the field, Loras took advantage and knock Daveth backwards before grabbing a handful of sand and throwing it at the Oathkeeper's face.

Daveth shouted as sand got into his eyes. Temporarily blinded, he kept his distance from Loras as the Knight of the Flowers pressed the attack. Swing after swing, blow after blow, Daveth found himself being pushed back as he struggled to regain his vision. Every time he blinked it caused him discomfort. Then…

***SLASH!***

"GAHH!" Daveth shouted.

Loras managed to draw first blood, slashing Daveth across the side of his face and left a vertical scar which ran above and below his left eye; blood began trickling down his face. Loras felt rather pleased with himself.

"So you do bleed, Oathkeeper."

"Protect the King!" shouted Ser Meryn.

The Kingsguard knights heard the call and were rushing to aid King Daveth, but each of their respective paths were blocked by more than a dozen of Loras's men. Ser Mandon Moore was surrounded on all sides and was cut down. Eddard saw the struggle taking place and forced himself to his feet.

"No, I made a promise to Robert…" Eddard groaned in pain.

_'Take care of my children for me,'_  Robert's last words repeatedly rung through his head.

The Stark patriarch and Hand of the King, wielding Ice in both hands, boldly charged through the enemy blockade in an attempt to reach Daveth.

***SLASH!***

***SWING!***

***PIERCE!***

***SWISH!***

***THRUST!***

Sustaining one set of deep wounds that were being inflicted on him after another, exhausted the Stark patriarch managed to carve an opening and forced his way through – allowing the other Kingsguard knights Ser Lucius and Ser Barristan to follow suit.

"Protect the King!" they shouted.

More and more of the Knight of the Flowers' men charged from all directions, inflicting a series of stabbings to the three men. Although Lucius and Barristan were able to take down their assailants, Eddard Stark slumped forward and collapsed before Daveth's feet as Ice slipped from his grasp. Daveth, holding one side of his face with his left hand, opened his right eye to see the number of people risking their lives for him. Memories of the events that took place at Lannisport years ago were triggered and a sudden wave of emotion came rushing back to him all at once. Lowering his left hand back to his grip, the Young Stag got back to his feet and bellowed out a ferocious roar.

"NED! A'OOOOWAAAAAH!"

***SWING!***

***SLASH!***

***CLANG!***

***BASH!***

***BAM!***

***THRUST!***

***SWISH!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

***BAM!***

***BASH!***

Startled by this sudden display of power, Ser Loras Tyrell moved to quickly parry, but Daveth Baratheon forced him back. The Oathkeeper's stored and suppressed fury exploded as he quickly gained the upper hand. Witnessing the legendary Baratheon rage being unleashed firsthand and now finding himself the one on the defense, Loras held up his sword to protect himself every time Daveth brought Stormbringer down with each swing, each blow stronger than the one before. Blow after blow, Loras fell backwards and was gradually being forced to his knees to support himself as Stormbringer came crashing down; the Valyrian steel sword eventually shattered Loras's blade in two before Daveth shifted his position and swung Stormbringer upwards.

***SLASH!***

"Gragh!" Loras shouted as Daveth inflicted a savage wound across Loras's face.

Now disarmed and at Daveth's mercy, Loras winced in pain as Daveth stood over him with Stormbringer being pointed at the tip of his nose.

"Go on," Loras challenged. "Do it. Give the order. Kill me, just as you did Stannis with Renly."

***WARHORNS BLOWING!***

****

After a brief moment of pause and noticing in the distance hundreds of thousands of cavalry came into view, Daveth regained control of himself as he saw banners of House Stark including a rather large direwolf, the banners of House Lannister led by his grandfather Lord Tywin, and those of House Tully being more noticeably visible as Stannis Baratheon's fleet led by  _Fury_  arrived to bombard the rebel host by sea. Northmen, Rivermen and Westermen carved their way forward to ensnare the now-panicking rebels.

"No," Daveth said calmly. "You're more useful to me alive, Loras Tyrell. We're not doing it your way. Look around you. See this? All of this senseless death and destruction? Is this what you actually wanted?"

Loras looked to see many of his men either trying to flee, being cut down like sheep or surrendering.

"What would Uncle Renly have to say about this?" he asked.

_'Renly…'_  Loras thought, a sharp sting of pain hit his heart as guilt began to gradually overtake him.

Thinking of his deceased lover before the rebellion started, Loras remembered Renly being more complacent about his current standing and being more amiable with his nephew Daveth. Hell, even before all of this started, Loras and Daveth shared a sense of comradery after the joust during the Hand's Tourney. He closed his eyes as tears began spilling down his cheeks, wincing as the injury began to sting him.

"He would not like seeing any of this," spoke Loras, recognizing that their position was lost. "I yield…"

Now finding himself becoming suddenly exhausted, Daveth felt his strength beginning to leave him. Still bleeding from the gash on his face, the Oathkeeper brought his left hand to cover his face as he dropped to one knee as he wearily looked up to see Robb Stark approaching.

"Daveth! Father!" Robb shouted.

* * *

**At the Great Hall, inside Red Keep…**

* * *

"Mother," Tommen held his mother, the two sat on the Iron Throne.

Cersei hushed him, now having sobered up. "Be calm, my sweet."

"Where's my brother? Is he all right?"

"They're still fighting. No one's going to hurt you. Your big brother will always protect you."

Tommen said nothing as Cersei held him.

"I'll tell you a story," she said. "You know the one about the mother lion and her little cub?"

Tommen nodded.

"They lived in the woods. Yes, my love. In the Kingswood there lived a mother and her cub. She loved him very much. But there were other things that lived in the woods. Evil things."

"Like what?"

"Like stags."

Tommen shook his head. "Stags aren't evil. They only eat grass," he pointed out.

Cersei tried to put on a smile as she rubbed his head. "And wolves," she continued. "He could hear them howling in the night. The little cub was frightened. His mother said, 'You are a lion, my son. You mustn't be afraid. For one day the beasts will ow to you. You will be king. All the stags will bow. All the wolves will bow. The bears in the north and the foxes of the south, all the birds in the sky and the beasts in the see… they will all come to you, little lion, to rest a crown upon your head.'" She felt her voice beginning to crack slightly. "And the cub said, 'Will I be strong and fierce like my father?' 'Yes,' said his mother. You will be strong and fierce like your father.'" Cersei unveiled a small vial, popping the cork off and slowly brought it to Tommen. "I will keep you safe, my love," she cooed. "I promise you."

As the vial was brought closer to Tommen's lips, the doors to the throne room were brought open. Startled, Cersei stood up and held Tommen close to her. Soldiers came pouring into the throne room, each of them holding up banners of Houses Stark, Lannister, Tully and Baratheon. Robb Stark and Edmure Tully entered the room, accompanied by Tywin Lannister as he made his way forward.

"Father!" Cersei exclaimed in surprise. She slowly lowered the small vial, its liquid content spilling onto the floor before letting it go. It shattered upon impact.

"The battle is over," Tywin announced. "We have won."

Smiling as a sense of relief fell over her, Cersei hugged Tommen; the boy holding his mother's arm. He briefly pulled away as Sansa and Arya found their way in.

"Robb!" they shouted and ran to embrace their eldest brother.

"By the gods, you two are safe!" Robb said as he hugged Sansa and Arya. "Are you alright?"

Sansa and Arya nodded.

"Brother!" Tommen shouted.

All eyes turned to see Daveth leaning against Ser Barristan, his right arm being carried over his shoulder as he held the side of his face with his left hand. Ser Lucius, Ser Meryn and the remaining Kingsguard accompanied behind him, excluding Ser Mandon who perished in battle. Tyrion, Podrick and Bronn followed suit with Loras Tyrell in chains.

"Robb, Ser Edmure, grandfather…" Daveth groaned. "You saved me. I am grateful to you all."

Tommen released his grip on his mother and ran down the steps and rushed to hug his eldest brother. He smiled as he looked up but turned into a saddened frown.

"Brother!" Tommen pointed to Daveth's face. "You're hurt!"

Sansa ran to check on him, gasping as she saw her betrothed was wounded. "My sweet King!" Sansa interjected worriedly. "Look at you…"

"I am fine," Daveth said, motioning for Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius to let him go.

The old knights complied, though were startled when Daveth stumbled a bit – small drops of blood landing on the floor. The Oathkeeper held his arm out, instructing all to stay still as he stood tall again.

Arya, meanwhile, scanned the room. "Where's father?" she asked.

Both Robb and Daveth closed their eyes and lowered their heads.

"No…" Sansa shook her head, tears welling at the sudden realization. "No, no, no…!"

Arya felt the same and shut her eyes tight. Finally, Sansa fell to her knees and sobbed into her hands as soon as she saw an unconscious Eddard being carried into the nearest room. The Silent Sisters treated him as best as they could, but the maesters informed them all that Eddard was about to succumb to his wounds soon. The Stark patriarch only had a few hours remaining, so if anything was to be said – it would be their last chance to speak to him before he passes.

Although the battle was won, it came at a high price…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And who are you, the proud lord said,  
> that I must bow so low?  
> Only a cat of a different coat,  
> that's all the truth I know.  
> In a coat of gold or a coat of red,  
> a lion still has claws,  
> And mine are long and sharp, my lord,  
> as long and sharp as yours.
> 
> And so he spoke, and so he spoke,  
> that Lord of Castamere,  
> But now the rains weep o'er his hall,  
> with no one there to hear.  
> Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,  
> and not a soul to hear.


	30. Loss of the Quiet Wolf

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

  
  


The sun began to set, and the bells began ringing.

Lying on his bed in the Tower of the Hand, Eddard Stark's breathing grew more labored as the days progressed. Grand Maester Pycelle, who was released from solitary confinement, confessed that he was surprised that someone like the Hand of the King had managed to last as long as he did. But Pycelle reported that Eddards' wounds were deep as they were multiple. His wife, Catelyn took Talisa with her and marched to the capital as fast as she heard the news. Even Talisa's treatment could only do so much. Standing at Eddard's side stood his eldest son Robb, who is visibly devastated knowing that his father was going to die soon. Both Sansa and Arya were weeping as they each held their father's hands in their own. Catelyn tried to put on a stone face for the sake of her children but failed as she silently wept as well.

"My children…" spoke Eddard weakly.

"Father," Robb said.

"Father," Sansa and Arya replied, wiping tears from their eyes as more began to pour.

Catelyn took Eddard's wet rag and wiped his brow. "Ned, my sweet…" her voice trembled.

Eddard coughed and slightly winced in pain. "My time here is done…" he plainly said.

"No, father," Arya pleaded. "You can't…!"

"Please, father, please don't leave us!" Sansa sniffled, holding his hand into her own.

"If only will could make it so, my children. But I know now it was destined to be this way. I grew up with soldiers. I learned how to die a long time ago. But I kept going for as long as I could for all of you, your brothers, your mother… and the King."

Arya stubbornly shook her head. "That's not fair!"

Robb placed a hand on his youngest sister's shoulder. "Arya," he motioned.

Arya looked at her brother, lowering her head to wipe her eyes on her sleeve. The door to the room then opened, giving a small creaking noise for all to hear. Fighting to keep his eyes open, Eddard looked up to see who it was.

"Your Grace…" he coughed.

The gathered Starks looked to the doorway and saw Daveth standing there, his bandages covering the left side of his face had small stains of dried blood on it. Robb, Sansa, Arya and Catelyn stood but were motioned to remain seated.

"Your Grace," they all greeted grimly.

Daveth still felt the sharp sting near his eye and it pained him sorely. "May I?" he asked.

Catelyn briefly nodded and allowed the Young Stag entry. Daveth slowly made his way forward and looked at Eddard, sitting himself down at the bedside.

"You damned fool," Daveth said.

The Starks looked surprised and visibly upset at that remark, but immediately cooled off once they noticed the seemingly stoic Daveth Baratheon's face and demeanor beginning to crack and display a series of emotion.

"Why? Why did you do that?"

Eddard was certain he knew what the Young Stag was referring to. "I made a promise to your father on his deathbed a year ago that I would look after his children; that I would look over and protect you as if you were one of my own. What I did at the Blackwater… it needed to be done. It was the only way to ensure that Robert's last wish was fulfilled," he said hoarsely.

Daveth felt as if the words were stabbing and being twisted in his gut, like a sharpened blade. He couldn't protect Jon Arryn from dying and his watch had ended last year. Now Daveth felt as if he couldn't do anything to prevent Eddard Stark―his Hand, future father-in-law and strongest supporter―from meeting an almost similar fate. Both were good men, and now it appears that the Stark patriarch's watch is coming to an end. The feeling of helplessness; Daveth utterly hated the manifestation from developing in the pit of his mind. The Young Stag's face scrunched and he felt a lump in his throat.

"Don't blame yourself, my boy," Eddard reassured him. "It's alright. I'll be off to see your father again… with no regrets. Let me remind you of how much you've grown. How you've matured. You've become a good, wise King in your own right, Daveth… whatever differences we might have had, I was proud to serve; you had already surpassed Robert a long time ago."

Daveth shook his head. "My lord―"

"Sometimes we have to look beyond what we want to do what's best, Daveth. It's something I had to learn as Hand of the King."

The Young Stag momentarily broke eye contact, struggling to take in what Eddard was telling him. He didn't want to show weakness in front of anyone, but the more the Quiet Wolf spoke, the harder it was to contain it.

"I know it's not fair," Eddard continued speaking; his voice ached with pain and discomfort, "nothing ever is, nor should I have to ask you of this, but… I can feel it coming. I must ask that you promise me something."

"Anything."

The Stark patriarch lifted Daveth and Sansa's hands up and brought them together. His breathing was more haggard. "Take good care… of my daughter Sansa… for me…" he asked. "She has a kind, gentle heart… and she'll need you now more than ever. As her father, I've seen firsthand how Sansa… looks at you. Cherish every moment you have… and know that both of you… have my blessings. My only regret… is that I won't be there to… to attend the wedding. Promise me."

Sansa's lip trembled and she shut her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks as she sobbed once more. "Father…" she wept.

"I…" Daveth hesitated. "I will. You have my word, Lord Stark."

Eddard allowed himself a smile as Daveth's common phrase was said aloud. Whenever the word was issued, the Oathkeeper never went back on his word and kept his promises. "There's one more… one more thing," he said. "Something you… need to know…"

He griped Daveth and pulled him close enough to whisper into his ear. Robb, Sansa, Arya and Catelyn couldn't quite make out what Eddard was telling the King, but as Daveth listened for a moment, his face twisted into a mix of discomfort and disgust.

"Are you certain?"

"Aye. Jon Arryn learned the truth… and now… now you know…" The Stark patriarch turned to the rest of his family. "Robb," he called out as his eldest son and heir knelt beside his father. "You remember… our words?"

Robb nodded. "Winter is coming," he said.

"Winter is coming," the Starks repeated.

Eddard motioned Robb towards their ancestral sword, Ice, which stood on the opposite side of the room. Robb went over and picked up, looking back at his father. "Remember: in the winter… we must protect ourselves, Robb, look after… one another," Eddard continued. "When the snows fall… and the white winds blow, the… the lone wolf dies, but the pack… survives. Once I am gone, Robb, you… are Lord of Winterfell."

Robb grimaced, his facial expression showed emotional hurt; but the Young Wolf was always mindful of his duties and responsibilities. "I… I understand, father," Robb acknowledged.

Eddard turned towards Catelyn. "My dearest wife…"

Catelyn held Eddard's hand. "Ned…" she spoke softly.

"I… I'm sorry, my love. Take care of… of Bran and… and Rickon… for me… Tell them… tell them that I… I love them very much. I love all of you…"

"We love you too, father," Arya whimpered.

"Father," Sansa reciprocated.

Eddard smiled and finally released his grip on Daveth and Sansa's hands. They both jerked to see the Stark patriarch with his eyes closed and was rather unresponsive.

"F-father?" Sansa choked. "Father? FATHER!" she wailed in anguish.

"Father! Please come back, father! Please!" Arya wailed, struggling to wake Eddard but to no avail.

_'The realm loses yet another good man,'_  Daveth thought.  _'And now his watch has ended.'_ He pulled Sansa close to him. "Sansa…"

Not putting up any resistance, Sansa simply buried her head into Daveth's chest, sobbing and weeping over the loss of her father. It was a sad day in King's Landing, indeed…

* * *

**At the Great Sept of Baelor...**

* * *

The funeral of Eddard Stark took place at the Great Sept of Baelor several days later. The Silent Sisters tended and prepared the services, Eddard's body laid in state for visitors and prayers to pay their respects to the deceased Hand of the King, which itself was positioned so that his head was pointed towards the statue of the Stranger. The body was displayed atop an altar, changed into formal clothes and his wounds were cleaned up as best as possible. His hands were clasped together over the chest clasping a sword pointing downwards. King Daveth ordered that Eddard Stark's corpse be returned to Winterfell and buried in the crypts beside his father Rickard, his brother Brandon and his sister Lyanna. The Oathkeeper also ordered that all of his household guards who died in his service defending the city at the Blackwater be returned North and their families compensated for their loyal services.

"You've done my family a kindness, Your Grace," Robb said during the funeral. "The North will remember this generosity."

"And we will never forget, my friend. It's the least I could do," replied Daveth. "The Starks will always be welcomed at court."

The two old friends looked over Eddard's body before the Silent Sisters arrive to take him away to be sent back to the North.

"There is to be an announcement in the throne room this afternoon, Robb. Your presence will be required."

"For what?"

"You'll find out soon enough. I will say this, however: this is not just the end of hard times, but only the beginning. We'll need to get ourselves ready for that."

* * *

**Elsewhere…**

* * *

Two smallfolk informants meet up with a traveling lord from the Vale. It had become apparent that after the skirmish at the Blackwater was brought to a decisive end, Lady Lysa Arryn finally caved into enough political pressure from both the Crown and House Arryn's vassals to venture to King's Landing to swear fealty. The loudest voices among them was led by Lord Yohn Royce, the Lord of Runestone and one of Jon Arryn's most powerful and loyal bannerman. Even Lysa herself knew she could not hold back those demanding her to answer the Oathkeeper's summons, but only on the condition that Robin comes with her under heavy guard as he was the young Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East.

Accompanying Lord Royce and Lady Arryn and Robin was also Lady Anya Waynwood, Lord Gilwood Hunter, Lord Horton Redfort, Lord Benedar Belmore and Ser Vance Corbray. Lysa had not seen Daveth at court for over a year since Jon died, and there was no doubt that there would be simmering tensions once she arrived. But there was at least  _one_  person Lysa dreamt of seeing once she arrived.

"Did you hear?" one of the smallfolk asked.

The other nodded. "I did. The Oathkeeper is making his move."

"Ser Loras made a serious mistake by attacking the capital. Think the King will call for his head?"

"Doubtful. The King's already summoned the Lord of Highgarden to the capital to ransom the Knight of the Flowers himself," the first shook his head. "Ser Loras is in fact the heir to Highgarden and all the Reach. His father will no doubt beg for his son's safe return in exchange for his loyalty… that, and he'll have to pay heavy reparations for his son's actions."

"That I'm certain of. Anyway, did you get what he asked for?"

He nodded. "I did. Be sure 'he' or the widow Arryn doesn't catch wind of it. If they do…"

"I know. It'll be the end of us. Let's send a message to Bodrin."

* * *

**At the Great Hall of the Red Keep…**

* * *

It was time for the royal announcement. All assembled lords and ladies stood before the Iron Throne as King Daveth I Baratheon stood to hand out rewards to those who aided him during the battle at Blackwater Bay. Lord Petyr Baelish was seen standing in the front row with Varys and Grand Maester Pycelle; the King was furious at him for arranging a secret meeting at the Reach without his knowledge or consent, but the Master of Coin reassured the Oathkeeper that he had managed to send word to the Vale ahead of time – hoping that would be enough to appease him.

_"I grow tired of your games, Lord Baelish,"_  he reminded him.  _"Don't do it again. Or so help me…"_

Cersei Lannister was confined to stand at the gallery with the other ladies of the court, along with the freshly widowed Catelyn Stark and her daughters Sansa and Arya; Tyrion Lannister, Bronn, Podrick and Tommen looked on as they watched. Donning his black armor with the golden crowned stag on his breastplate, Daveth motioned those to come before him. Stannis Baratheon, Edmure Tully, and Robb Stark stood beside each other. Tywin Lannister, meanwhile, rode in on a white horse and assured his dominance by being at the very front of the pack – much to their annoyance.

  


"I, Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, do hereby present the Four Saviors of the City."

The royal steward stepped forward to hand a scroll to King Daveth. He had a list of names of those whom he planned to award.

"In the place of the deceased Lord Eddard Stark, who gave his life to protect his King during the Battle of Blackwater Bay, it is the will of the crown that I hereby proclaim my grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West, as the Hand of the King."

The Old Lion rode first. A few gasps were heard. They all heard of the Old Lion's ruthless reputation for getting results during his tenure as Hand under the Mad King; some were rather surprised that the Oathkeeper chose to reinstate his grandfather. Others suspected the Young Stag had his reasons for doing so, but chose not to speak. Catelyn felt rather uncomfortable; Cersei, meanwhile, silently nodded her head in approval at her eldest son's choice to name her father to the office. Daveth motioned the steward forward and placed the badge of office onto a cushion before it was delivered to Lord Tywin himself. He was a cold, grim old man who never smiled. Tywin took the golden Hand brooch once it arrived and bowed when he received it.

"Thank you, Your Grace," Tywin said in a strong low voice and rode out of the throne room.

"Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone," Daveth waved his hand.

Stannis did as he was told, his face still portraying a cold, stern and serious expression.

"In recognition for your loyal service and the vital role you played in putting down the rebellion, I hereby restore your rights of inheritance and grant you our family's ancestral castle of Storm's End with all the attendant lands and incomes of the Stormlands to be held by your sons and grandsons after you from this day until the end of time."

If he was capable of smiling, Stannis would have done so already. The fiery stag Lord of Dragonstone felt he had finally been given the justice that was long denied him.

"Your Grace," Stannis curtly nodded as the new Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands walked out.

"Ser Edmure Tully of Riverrun!"

The heir to Riverrun proudly knelt before the Iron Throne.

"In acknowledgment of House Tully's dutiful service and the generosity of the Riverlands for providing enough crops to the capital so its people could avoid mass starvation, I hereby name you Defender of the Forks and Champion of the Trident."

Edmure nodded gracefully. "You honor us, Your Grace," he said and walked out.

"Lord Petyr Baelish, step forward."

Petyr did as told, kneeling before the Oathkeeper. Somehow his arrangements and secret dealings would provide satisfactory results.

"For your good service and ingenuity of negotiating the end of hostiles between the crown and the Reach, and for… bringing the Vale back into the fold, I declare you shall be granted the castle of Harrenhal with all its attendant lands and incomes to be held by your sons and grandsons from this day until the end of time."

"You honor me beyond words, Your Grace," Petyr replied as he rose to his feet. "I shall have to acquire some sons and grandsons."

This brought forth some laughter from the crowd, and Petyr smirked triumphantly as he returned to his place. Varys, however, did not appreciate this political maneuvering but the look he saw in the Oathkeeper's eyes quietly told him to simply bide his time and bear with it for just a while longer; that the Young Stag knew exactly what he was doing and that he simply needed the eunuch to trust in his judgment. And lastly, Daveth waved his hand forward.

"Robb Stark of Winterfell!"

The Young Wolf bowed and knelt before the Iron Throne.

"Words alone cannot express of how much the realm mourns the loss of your father, and those in his service who knowingly gave their lives so that we could live," Daveth spoke in a firm yet sympathetic tone. "Had I the power to restore your loved ones to life, I would. But perhaps the crown can honor House Stark in another way."

Robb lifted his head to look at Daveth.

"In accordance to the laws of gods and men, as well as the rights of inheritance, it is the will of the crown that I hereby name you Lord of Winterfell, Lord Paramount of the North and Warden of the North."

Catelyn, Sansa and Arya nodded in approval and joined in the applause. Before Robb could stand, Daveth silenced the audience.

"Is there anything else your family would ask of your King? If it is within my power, I will grant it."

Most in the assembly began chattering amongst themselves; what else could he have to offer? What does the Oathkeeper mean? Even Robb himself was surprised by the sudden offer. As he stood, Robb calmly composed himself.

"Your Grace," he spoke up, glancing at his mother and sisters before returning his gaze to the Iron Throne. "The last time we spoke, it was within the Great Halls of Winterfell back in the North. Our fathers, yours and mine, fought side-by-side for a very long time and negotiated an agreement last year; one that involved my sister Sansa."

Cersei narrowed her eyes at the Young Wolf suspiciously. She felt her fingers beginning to twitch as she was reminded of what was said in Winterfell back then.

"All men should keep their word, Kings most of all," Robb continued. "On behalf of House Stark and the people of the North, I only ask that you uphold our predecessors' pact of joining our houses."

The assembled courtiers gasped. How boldly the Young Wolf was to "demand" such a request from the Oathkeeper himself in front of everyone like that. Catelyn eyed her daughters, her son and the King. Cersei felt her face forming a rather nasty scowl. Part of her wanted to scream and shouted, but noticed Daveth glancing at the gallery. Sansa leaned forward, fidgeted her fingers. She knew what came next, but she was still nervous in anticipation and waited to hear the reply.

"A sensible request," Daveth announced, glancing at Sansa's direction. "Robb, I will uphold the agreement that was made between our two houses and will wed your sister. Let it be known that Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell shall be my Queen, and I will love her from this day until my last day. You have my word."

Sansa brightly smiled in relief, yet also full of courtesy and warmth. She could feel eyes upon her as the applause and cheers rose all around them. Catelyn applauded as well, pleased that the promise made was a promise kept. Houses Baratheon and Stark will officially be joined by blood, with her daughter Sansa as Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms and the King Daveth I Baratheon the Oathkeeper will be her son-in-law. Even Arya allowed herself to congratulate her older sister.

"I believe congratulations are in order, my lady," Ariyana Dayne said as she made her approach; behind her stood Brienne of Tarth. Apparently the two had been standing alongside them watching the whole thing take place.

Sansa spun around and nodded slowly. "Thank you. I… I'm very happy."

"And you are?" asked Catelyn suspiciously.

"Ariyana of House Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. And this young lady standing behind me is Brienne of Tarth."

"I'm not a lady," Brienne denied.

"The capital is full of liars, Brienne," Ariyana told her. "So best not to give yourself away. Everyone here always believes that they're somehow better than you."

Arya, however, believed they had other reasons for attending the ceremony. "Is there something you're here for?"

"There is," she said as she pulled a letter with sealed in a wax detailing a white falcon on a blue field and handed it to Catelyn. "A few friends of mine have told me to bring this directly to you, Lady Stark."


	31. Reconciliation?

* * *

**YEAR 300 AC**

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Daveth Baratheon, now nineteen years of age, stood in front of his mirror. Time often has an odd way of showing its hand; on one hand, it was kind but simultaneously played a cruel, sick joke. It's been more than two years since his ascent to the Iron Throne and he's repaid the Crown's financial debts, put down a rebellion, and defend the city against initially overwhelming odds. His former Hand, Lord Eddard Stark, had passed away; and in his place, Daveth appointed his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King. The Oathkeeper stared shirtless at his reflection, tracing the tip of his finger along the scar going across his left eye. The maesters, including Pycelle and Robb's traveling medical companion Talisa Maegyr, told Daveth how lucky he was to still be able to keep that eye. Any inch deeper and it would have been lost. His beard was slightly shaved, but allowed his long black ravened-haired to be neatly trimmed. His pectoral, abdominal and biceps had grown rather muscular and kept his body in peak physical condition. But at the same time Daveth looked so tired; lines had formed under his eyes that made him look a bit older. Some believed it to be either stress or sleepless nights to the point where courtiers began voicing their concerns to Tywin. The Old Lion instructed his grandson to get a few moments of rest before he was able to resume his kingship responsibilities.

More news arrived that Lysa Arryn and her assembled guards were on their way to swear fealty. The night before Daveth had already kept himself busy in a meeting with Lord Mace Tyrell and his mother Lady Olenna Redwyne the Queen of Thrones to discuss peace terms… and the exchange between Mace's son and heir Ser Loras Tyrell and Daveth's uncle Ser Jaime Lannsiter. It was his first time meeting the Queen of Thornes in person…

> **ooOoo**
> 
>   
> 
> _"Your Grace, on behalf of House Tyrell and the people of the reach, I swear to you we had no part in any of this. You know that we—" Mace Tyrell spoke like a pompous oaf._
> 
> _"Had no idea your son and heir would strike out on his own after Highgarden announced its intent to surrender?" Daveth finished. "I'm certain some would find that rather amusing, Lord Tyrell. Your house has already turned their backs on the crown when they chose to side with my traitorous uncle Renly Baratheon. Let me take an ample guess: did Renly employ the use of his gallant demeanor, charm? Did he offer your family a position at court?"_
> 
> _"But I—"_
> 
> _Lady Olenna sighed and decided it was time to intervene. "Not now, Mace!" she snapped at her son. "Your uncle was gallant, yes, Your Grace. And charming and very clean. He knew how to dress and smile and somehow believed this gave him the notion he was fit to be King."_
> 
> _"Yet from what I've heard your grandson was rather… 'well-acquainted' with Renly, often at times entering his chambers. Squires and pages that do well for themselves are known to have connections to the court, no doubt. Some believed he even whispered such poison into his ear and he followed through on it. Do you deny them?"_
> 
> _"Of course I deny—" Mace spoke again._
> 
> _"Mace!" Olenna lectured him again as she sat up straight in her chair._
> 
> _The elderly matriarch of House Tyrell had white hair and was very small, with soft, spotted hands with gaunt thin fingers. As mistress of court politics, plotting and intrigue, Olenna rarely shies from stating her opinion and is known as a wizened, cunning old woman with a wicked wit and sharp tongue – her cutting, barbed comments and the rose thorns in references to the sigil of House Tyrell which attributed to her nicknamed "the Queen of Thorns."_ _Daveth was certain she could be on par with his grandfather and Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister._
> 
> _"It was treason," she admitted. "I warned all of them. Robert has three sons and Renly has an older brother. How could he possibly have any claim to that ugly iron chair? We should have stayed well out of all this if you ask me. But once the cow's been milked, there's no squirting the cream back up her udders. So here we are to see things through."_
> 
> _Daveth looked at Olenna with interest. "You do say whatever's on your mind, don't you?" he said amused. "Your reputation precedes you, Queen of Thorns."_
> 
> _Olenna chuckled with coy. "My reputation precedes me? Is that your usual pickup line, Your Grace? A boy known far throughout the Seven Kingdoms for getting swift, calculating yet promising results in a short span of time without breaking his word, the Oathkeeper."_
> 
> _He opened his mouth to speak, but was silenced. Oooh, Olenna was very good at witty comebacks. Daveth cleared his throat._ _"Ahem! As entertaining as this meeting is, I'm afraid we must return to the task at hand before we get sidetracked," he said as he sat down. "Lord Tyrell, you've presented me the offers of concession to the Crown from Highgarden and the Reach. However, as I'm sure you are aware; there are others who've also been wronged by this conflict, not just me. They are all but calling for your son's head."_
> 
> _Mace's facial expression showed altruistic fear and concern for his son and heir Loras, fear_ _that his son might be executed by Ser Ilyn Payne, the King's Justice. He_ _might not be the most intelligent man, but Mace is an amiable fellow well-liked by most of his bannermen and a loving husband and father._
> 
> _"The Gods can be just, Lord Tyrell. The Warrior punishes those who believe themselves beyond the reach of justice," Daveth said before lowering his tone from stern to softer, something that caught Mace by surprise and Olenna to catch on. "But Baelor the Blessed taught us that The Mother can also be merciful to those who sincerely express their remorse and regret in the light of the Seven. I can be merciful, but only this one time."_ _Daveth reached to take a quill and dipped into ink._ _"In exchange for renewing your pledge of fealty to the Crown, releasing my uncle Ser Jaime Lannister back into our custody, pay an increased compensation of 30 percent in provisions to the capital so it might survive the winter - one that includes 650,000 bushels each of barley, oats, and rye; 26,000 head of cattle; and 65,000 sheep. You must also vow to never to take up arms against me again. Agree and not only I will give House Tyrell one more chance but I'll restore the original provisions to their normal levels once the debt has been paid."_
> 
> _Mace took a moment to review the Crown's counteroffer as Daveth continued._
> 
> _"I'll even extend an olive branch, should Highgarden and the Reach continue to uphold and abide to the agreement."_
> 
> _"Oh?" Olenna inquired. "And what would that be?"_
> 
> _Daveth looked at the Queen of Thorns as he presented the offer. "Your granddaughter, Lady Margaery, remains a maiden. And I've heard that she desires to become a Queen, but her greed and ambition poses quite a problem should it remain unchecked. Regardless, I'll offer the hand of my youngest brother and heir, Prince Tommen, to Lady Margaery once he comes of age."_
> 
> _"Too young."_
> 
> _"Excuse me?"_
> 
> _"Too young," she repeats. "As an authority figure on myself, I must disagree. True we don't tie ourselves in knots over a discreet bit of buggery, but… your brother is still a child, one who still needs to grow to be rather suitable if our affiliation is to be renewed."_
> 
> _"As was my betrothed, Sansa," Daveth reminded her. "Yet the Starks of Winterfell didn't seem to complain as much when their prized maiden was offered."_
> 
> _"And if Tommen is too gullible to prove a suitable match for my granddaughter, then we are throwing one of our own prized possessions into the dirt. Not to mention increase in crops Highgarden is to provide. It's a chance us Tyrells simply cannot afford to take at this time."_
> 
> _"We meant no disrespect to you or your house, Your Grace," Mace spoke up, "but this offer would need to be discussed some more."_
> 
> _Daveth felt his patience beginning to wear thin. "The uncertainty of my terms make you that uncomfortable, doesn't it? Need I remind you that I'm the wounded party here?" he leaned his head sideways. "All right then, Lord Tyrell. Lady Olenna. I'll make it simple for you: either you agree to my terms, or I will have Loras take the black or name him to the Kingsguard."_
> 
> _Mace widened his eyes as he felt as if the wind was knocked out of him, while Olenna herself remained composed and narrowed her eyes. The Queen of Thorns determined the Young Stag learned to use this politically calculating move from his own grandfather just in case._
> 
> _"I'm sure you're aware of the vows recited by both the Night's Watch and the Kingsguard: Loras will never marry, will never have children, nor will he inherit lands or titles. The Tyrell name will fade into the sands of time. And Highgarden will be given to another more worthy. On that, you have my word."_
> 
> _"You would be protected by someone who's already on poor terms with you?" Olenna asks._
> 
> _Daveth shook his head. "I would be protected by a skilled knight who takes his oaths seriously, or the Wall would be more fitted to guarding the realm from what lies beyond it."_ _He takes the quill and placed the tip directly over the paper._ _"Now, shall I draw up the order? Or do you agree to my terms?"_
> 
> _Mace looked to his mother, who shakes her head._
> 
> _"It's a rare enough thing for a boy who lives up to his reputation," Olenna conceded._
> 
> _By sunset, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South signed the agreement with the Crown and reaffirmed House Tyrell's loyalty – effectively securing the Reach and returning to the fold. Most saw the action as merciful, while other older, more conservative elements initially perceived this as not going far enough. But the Oathkeeper's decision was final. The Reach would return to the royal fold, but had to abide by the sanctions placed on them._
> 
> **ooOoo**

Daveth rubbed his eyes and shook his head. As he grabbed his shirt from the nearest chair, there was a knock on his door.

***KNOCK, KNOCK!***

"Who is it?" he called out.

"It's your mother," Cersei answered. "May I come in?"

Daveth put on his shirt and reached to grab the handle, pulling it to allow his mother entry. He motioned his Kingsguard knights Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius to remain on guard at the door. Once Cersei Lannister stepped into the room, it allowed mother and son a moment of privacy.

"Would you like some wine, mother?"

Cersei shook her head. "No thank you, my son. I'm fine. I just thought I might stop by and check up on you."

"May I ask why?"

"Is it wrong for a mother to want to see her firstborn?"

"No, I suppose not. You rarely stop by my room these days unless there is something of utmost importance."

The Golden Lioness seemed to have taken it as a retort, but even she quietly admitted that there was some truth in her son's words. The two had grown distant lately; Cersei had still not forgiven Daveth for exiling Joffrey to the Wall and she had now learned that not only were the Tyrells permitted to retain their titles, lands and pay a seemingly extravagant reparation fee in exchange for renewing their oaths of fealty but Cersei learned that her youngest child Tommen was to wed Margaery Tyrell once he was old enough. She tried to convince her father Lord Tywin to request Daveth pardon Joffrey and have him return to King's Landing from the Night's Watch, but much to her dismay the Old Lion of Casterly Rock sided with Daveth and refused to have the Oathkeeper's decree revoked.

Cersei carefully examined her son's face. "You've grown so much," she added.

"We all have," Daveth replied. "It's something that all of us are destined to go through at some point in life, regardless of our own wants and desires."

He had somehow hoped that this would officially be seen as the beginning of reconciliation, but the Young Stag knew better than to get his hopes up like that. Daveth knew his own mother better than most.

"They said you almost lost an eye, but the scar's not as hideous as it looks."

_'Here we go…'_  he thought. "I repaid the favor to the Knight of the Flowers himself that day. Besides, it's not that serious as the minstrels would like to believe."

"Are you in pain?"

Daveth shook his head. "It comes and goes, although the same couldn't be said for the people who tried to kill me."

"I should certainly hope so. It makes you look strong," Cersei remarked. "The rebels came for your head, but they lost their own. Thanks to father."

"Thanks to grandfather  _and_  three others."

"You're set to meet with your grandfather today?"

"How did you hear about that?"

"I have a few spies at my disposal, though not as much as you do I'm sure. And the Master of Whisperers himself also owes me a favor or two."

"Of course he did…" Daveth muttered. "Apparently grandfather has decided to relocate the meeting area of the Small Council to the Tower of the Hand near his own chambers."

"Ah, yes. Your grandfather always did have a way to assert his dominance. It's something he's done the very same when your uncles and I grew up in Casterly Rock. He never let anyone forget who ruled the Westerlands and reminded them of their place."

"That he did, although he seems to be a bit more empathetic towards Uncle Jaime than most."

Cersei swore she felt her lip somehow twitch in a sneer at the mention of her twin brother.

"You'll be pleased to learn that I've managed to secure his release."

The Golden Lioness's head jerked up at the news. "How? When…?" she asked.

"A fortnight ago," Daveth answered. "Uncle Jaime is set to return to the capital by midday tomorrow. He'll be needing a bath and a change of clothes, though."

Cersei felt her spirits lift as she listened to her son mentioning that Jaime would soon be reunited with the rest of the Lannister family. To Daveth, perhaps that would help to put Cersei in a better mood.

"There's also the matter of the royal wedding, my son."

"What about it?" he quipped, picking up a small piece of grey and green cloth.

"That looks like the Stark colors. Might I recommend you give it to Sansa for her wedding gown? It should be more than enough fabric."

"You say that now, but wait until more requests come pouring in."

Cersei managed to repress a light chuckle so her son wouldn't hear. "I've noticed you and her have become… close, wouldn't you say?"

"Deciding to dig into my personal affairs, aren't we, mother?"

"I only ask out of concern for you, as is my right as a mother. I only want you to be happy."

"A promise is a promise. Once the match was made two years ago, I have done nothing but perform my duty since it was expected of me."

"Yes, but what do you think of her now? Sansa's beautiful and young. Her demeanor seems to have undergone some minor adjustments, which is interesting."

"It's taken some time, though I believe she's finally found her footing and adapted to court intrigue," Daveth said. "A bit of a slow learner when we first met, perhaps, but Sansa learned nonetheless. She has even… surprised me as of late."

"How so?"

"By not only proving to adapt and thrive, but to do so  _without_  sacrificing the essential part of her that makes Sansa who and what she is: her devotion, her innocence… her purity."

_'Love is a bitter sweet poison, my son,'_  Cersei thought as she listened.  _'A sweet poison, but it'll kill you that much faster.'_

Daveth turned to look at his mother, a determined look in his eyes. "But I will not be like the kind of man to Sansa like father was to you. I will not."

_"You will never wed the Prince, you'll wed the King. You will be Queen, for a time. Then comes another – younger, more beautiful – to cast you down and take all you hold dear,"_  Maggy's words continued whispering in Cersei's head.  _"The King will have 20 children, and you will have 4. One will belong to the King, an enigma to own kin. But only one will wear a gold crown, gold the ushering of their dynasty. A Prince That Was Promised, but only one of three."_

Cersei had spaced out, but was brought back into reality once Daveth shook her by the shoulder.

"Mother?"

She shook her head. "It's nothing, my son. But at some point you'll need to understand what is in the interest of the family, for the better of our house."

"I'm well aware of that, mother," Daveth spoke. "The burden, the responsibilities… Whatever the pain and hardships I have to endure to get the realm to where it needs to be, then that's on me."

It was that what made Cersei's face twist into discomfort. But at which one? The prophecy told to her as a girl? Or the apparent omen her son just said about himself?

"Is there anything else?" she pressed.

Daveth sighed. "Mother, when I or Varys know something, you'll know. But until then, try to be a bit more patient."

Cersei stood by as she watched her eldest son putting on his formal regal attire and walk out the door, possibly intending to head to the Tower of the Hand – but he stopped to turn and look at her.

"And one more thing," he said in a serious tone. "You even think about trying to undermine me like you did during the battle at Blackwater Bay again, and I'll send you back to Casterly Rock."

The Golden Lioness didn't like being told what to do, especially in that seemingly accusatory manner, but wasn't able to let out a retort as she watched Daveth leave.

"A Lannister always pays her debts," Cersei muttered. "A Lannister  _always_  pays her debts…"

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

 

Tyrion Lannister sat in a chair watching his father Lord Tywin―now serving in his capacity as Hand of the King (a position he once held before for nearly 20 years during the Mad King's reign)―authoring a series of letters and documents. He didn't say anything yet, but it was clearly obvious that only his presence soured Tywin's mood. The dwarf himself had also gotten a scar that went across his face as a result of Ser Mandon Moore of the Kingsguard betraying King Daveth and tried to kill Tyrion before he himself was cut down by Ser Loras Tyrell's own men. Tyrion had told Daveth what had happened, yet was told by his nephew that Mandon had received his fitting punishment regardless.

_"You're alive, Uncle Tyrion,"_  Daveth reminded him,  _"and Ser Mandon is not. Either way, his treachery did not go unpunished."_

Tyrion often had a hard time understanding his nephew, but he knew the Young Stag only meant well and didn't want to come off as curt. No, that was Tywin and Cersei's job. Jaime, Daveth, Myrcella, and Tommen would never hate Tyrion for whatever he did. "The badge looks good on you," he finally said to his father, breaking the silence. "Are you enjoying your new position?"

"Am I enjoying it?" Tywin coldly mocked. "I sent you here to advise the King."

"I did exactly as you said."

"I gave you a chance at real power and authority, and yet you spent your days as you always have, bedding harlots and drinking with thieves."

"Occasionally I drank with the harlots."

Tywin looked up irritated. "What do you want, Tyrion?" he grudgingly asked.

"Why does everyone I assume I want something? Can't I simply visit my beloved father? My beloved father who somehow forgot to visit both his wounded son and grandson after they've been struck in battle?"

"Maester Pycelle assured me your injuries were not fatal, but Daveth appeared to recover much quicker than you ever did."

Tyrion was slowly getting angry. " _We_  organized the defense of this city while  _you_  held court in the ruins of Harrenhall," he began ranting. "Your own grandson, the King, your predecessor, Ned Stark, and I all led the foray when the enemies were at the gate and held the line for as long as possible, waiting for  _you_  to arrive when  _we_  were vastly outnumbered.  _I_  bled in the mud for our family. My own nephew fought tooth and nail and nearly lost an eye. And as my reward, I was hustled away to some dark little cell. But what do  _I_ want? A little fucking, bloody gratitude would be a start!"

"Jugglers and singers require applause. You are a Lannister," he said plainly. "Do you think I demanded a garland of roses every time I suffered a wound on a battlefield? Hmm? Now, I have to advise the King and aid him in looking after seven kingdoms, two of them returned to the fold and another about to follow suit. So tell me what it is you want."

"I want what is mine by right," Tyrion boldly declared.

Lord Tywin stopped writing and looked at Tyrion, both father and son matching each other intense gaze for intense gaze.

"Jaime is your eldest son, the heir to your lands and titles. But as a Kingsguard, he cannot marry, father children or inherit anything. The day Jaime put on the white cloak twenty-three years ago, he gave up his claim to Casterly Rock. I, on the other hand, am your son and lawful heir."

"You want Casterly Rock."

"It is mine by right," the Imp insisted with stubborn conviction.

The Old Lion merely sighed in annoyance. "We'll find you accommodations more suited to your name and as a reward for both your accomplishments and recognition for your service to the King during battle of Blackwater Bay. And when the time is right, you will be given a position fit for your talents so that you can serve your family and protect our legacy. And if you serve faithfully, you will be rewarded with a suitable wife." Tywin paused, and his green eyes take a drastic turn with utter spite. "And I would let myself be consumed by maggots before mocking the family name and making  _you_  heir to Casterly Rock."

Tyrion just stares at the man he's called father his whole life, yet he felt his lips moving on their own. "Why?" he asks.

"'Why'? You ask that? You, who killed your own mother to come into the world?!" Tywin erupted in a blind fury, standing from his chair and stared Tyrion down.

Tyrion remained seated, not moving a muscle, not even looking as his father continued yelling at him.

"You are an ill-made, devious, disobedient, spiteful little creature full envy, lust, and low cunning! Sometimes I don't even understand why Daveth ever bothers to put up with you! Men's laws give you the right to bear my name and display my colors since I cannot prove that you are not  _mine_! And to teach me humility, the Gods have condemned me to watch you waddle about wearing that proud lion that was my father's sigil and his father's before him. But neither Gods nor men, even my own grandson, will ever compel me to let you turn Casterly Rock into your whorehouse!"

Tyrion felt his hands tightening their grip against the chair handles and his teeth tighten.

"Go, now. And speak no more of your rights to Casterly Rock. Go."

Tyrion pushed himself off the chair and stomped his way out, not even bothering to turn around as Tywin issued another stern warning.

"One more thing: the next whore I catch in your bed, I'll hang."

* * *

**At one of the Red Keep's visitor's apartments…**

* * *

Catelyn Stark stood with the letter given to her by Ariyana Dayne, looking out the window as her hands clenched tight in a cold, blinding fury. The look on her was a mixed expression of hurt and betrayal. She took another long, hard look at the letter and read it once more:

> _To the widow Lady Catelyn Stark, formerly of House Tully,_
> 
> _The Oathkeeper has been keeping close tabs on the activities of those he suspects of not having the realm's best interests at heart. When he heard of your son Bran's incident, the Oathkeeper ordered us to do some digging around._ _Please be sure to burn this letter so as to prevent it from falling into the wrong hands._
> 
> _[...]_
> 
> _Cat,_
> 
> _I've been warning you for a long time that your friend since childhood is not the person he claims to be. Just recently the Master of Whisperers has informed me that one of the men who delivered the final blow that killed your late, beloved husband Ned Stark was in fact a paid agent in service to none other than Littlefinger himself._ _My agents have been gathering sufficient evidence to confirm our suspicions. It's taken some time, but we found it. One of the whores at one of Littlefinger's brothels was overheard gossiping about the necessary "services in regards to the Quiet Wolf." When confronted and interrogated by the new Commander of the City Watch, Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and his men, the suspect in question offered to cooperate in return for a lighter sentence in the black cells._
> 
> _Turns out the sellsword has a knack for figuring out who's telling a truth and who's telling a lie as he does swinging a sword around._
> 
> _His men were able to trace the lines of those connected to Littlefinger and were able to obtain several forged documents, determine the source of the flow of vast sums of money, and spotted Littlefinger with one of his "contacts" at the Reach before he departed for the Vale. Our informants overheard him saying "get rid of Ned Stark when the time is right, and you will be paid handsomely. And if anyone asks questions, feel free to pin the blame on the Lannisters. Cat will understand and turn her gaze towards them just as she did with the Imp."_
> 
> _I have an agent working undercover at one of his brothels, but she'll have to remain anonymous so as to avoid being exposed. We will call on you when the time is right. For now, all I ask of you is that you keep this to yourself, tell no one what you have just learned and endure a little while longer._
> 
> _Your husband was good to me, as was Lord Jon Arryn before him. I know this will not bring Ned back, but you deserve the right to know the truth – even if it only meant reopening old wounds._
> 
> _I'm sorry._
> 
> _Signed,  
>  The Oathkeeper"_

Catelyn felt tears beginning to form in her eyes again as she finished reading. Instinctively, she curled the paper into a ball and threw it in the fire pit. As the letter burned, Petyr Baelish entered the room. But before he could even say anything, Catelyn immediately turned around and began lashing out at him.

 

"How dare you…!" she hissed.

Petyr was taken aback. "You may have heard false reports," he tried to calm her down, but would risk getting nowhere if he was thrown out of her guest room.

"You betrayed me."

"Betrayed? Cat, what are you talking about? If this is about Ned Stark, I already told you how sorry I am for his loss—"

"I trusted you. My husband trusted you. You gave me your word that you would help me, that you would keep my husband alive, and you repaid our faith with treachery."

Petyr moved a step closer to Catelyn. "No, my lady, I—"

"Get out!" Catelyn spat and turned her back on him.

Taking another step forward, Petyr cautiously approached.

"Cat, I've… I've loved you since I was a boy. It seems to me that fate has given us this chance…"

Catelyn whipped around and waved a dagger at Petyr's face. "HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?! GET OUT!"

Backing away, Petyr placed his hands in the air in front of him. He assumed she was still grieving for Eddard's death. Not wanting to provoke her any longer and coming to the hard conclusion that whatever friendship they had was forever gone, Petyr reluctantly stepped out of the room.

Once he was gone, Catelyn collapsed on her bed and sobbed quietly. Out of all the friends she had in this world, Catelyn believed Petyr was the last person who could possibly do such a thing. At first she didn't want to see what Daveth's hand had written, but Catelyn knew that he felt honor bound to those he felt close to. Eddard was Daveth's Hand and served as his Regent and Protector of the Realm for a while, Robb was Daveth's oldest and closest childhood friend and Sansa was getting married to Daveth. As the eldest daughter of Hoster Tully silently cried, the sun began to set on the horizons. The gulls cawed above and the oceanic waves crashed against the shores below.


	32. Plans, Funerals and Reunions

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Tywin Lannister stood in the meeting hall of the Small Council. Pinned to his chest, like a prize and trophy, was the Hand of the King's badge of office. He wore a smug look upon his face as he walked around the table. A single chair at the head as six chairs lined up in total. He looked up just in time to see his grandson King Daveth I walk in.

"Your Grace," Tywin coolly greeted.

"Grandfather," Daveth greeted.

   
  
 

Soon after the brief formalities between the two ended, Varys, Petyr Baelish, Grand Maester Pycelle arrived, with Cersei Lannister and Tyrion Lannister in tow. Each spared each other a glance as Tywin and Daveth both took their respective seats. Tywin leaned back and tapped his fingers on the table; Daveth straightened his posture. With haste, each councilor took a seat as Tyrion appeared behind them. Soon the solid steps of heel echo the hall and the entrances way as Cersei became known; the Queen Mother let out a weary sigh and looked to a chair. Walking over to it, she picked it up and brought it over to Tywin's right side across from Daveth as Petyr stood next to the Young Stag. Tywin raised a brow at his daughter's actions as she was quite distant from him as of late. All eyes turned to Tyrion, the Imp; holding his chin high closed his eyes and dreamed he was back in his bed chambers with Shae between his legs. With a sigh, he walked over to the last chair and dragged it to face opposite of his father. Climbing into the seat, he let out a sigh.

"Intimate. Lovely table," Tyrion commented. "Better chairs than the old Small Council chamber. Conveniently close to your own quarters. I like it."

 _'Very funny, uncle, but now is not the time to be making snide comments like that,'_  Daveth thought unamused with a hint of mental exhaustion added.

Tywin paid no mind to Tyrion's compliment. "What news of Jaime?" he asked.

Everyone looked around, trying not to look the Old Lion in the eyes. The Young Stag, however, stood his ground and met his grandfather's gaze.

"You'll be pleased to learn that Ser Jaime is set to arrive at the capital by midday along the Roseroad soon as was required by the concessions agreement the Lord of Highgarden himself signed," Daveth spoke. "He gets his heir back, and you get yours."

"Hmmm," Tywin nodded in acknowledgment to Daveth's report – noting how the other councilors looked off to the side; uncertain as to whether it was shame or disappointment that the Oathkeeper delivered the news Tywin wanted to hear but they themselves couldn't provide.

Cersei looked off to the side; Tywin spared her a glance and went on.

"What else?"

"Robb Stark along with his mother and sisters are said to be preparing to leave the capital to travel to Riverrun for the funeral of their grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully," Varys said with a smile. "They have requested the King's leave to go with the promise of returning for the royal wedding."

"They have my permission," Daveth instructed. "And please inform Edmure that he is to now assume his late father's role as Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident on a more permanent basis."

"At once, Your Grace."

"There is also word that the widow Arryn is set to arrive at the capital soon," Tywin mentioned. "I assume that is your doing, Your Grace?"

Daveth shook his head and turned his gaze to Petyr. "It was actually the Lord of Harrenhal himself who suggested it, of course. The name actually suits our purposes far more than that useless pile of rubble."

"And the Lord of Harrenhal will in turn make a worthy suitor for the widow Arryn," the Old Lion said upon piecing the puzzles together.

"For which I am extremely grateful to you, my lord, Your Grace," Petyr said too proudly not to be noticed. "Lady Arryn and I have known each other since we were children. She has always been… positively predisposed towards me."

Daveth looked at Petyr, noticing how disdainful that demeanor didn't sit well with him at all. Smug, shrewd, self-serving and arrogant, his eyes didn't match the seemingly friendly face with a friendly smile. The Young Stag hated that; and he didn't like every word that came pouring out of Petyr's mouth. But if his plan was to work, he'd have to cautiously mask his intentions well and wait for the right moment. He swore he felt his stomach turn as old memories were brought forth. When he was a child, he met Lysa on several occasions back when Jon Arryn was served as Hand of the King for seventeen years. Something about Lysa unnerved him; Daveth considered her a rather odd fish, and somewhat mentally unstable yet did not display such traits whenever she was alone with Petyr. The Young Stag only grew increasingly suspicious of Lysa Arryn's behavioral when Jon died and she fled the capital immediately with her son Robin in tow, not even attending her husband's funeral and falsely accusing the Lannisters of being involved with Jon's death. Even if she was his future mother-in-law Catelyn's younger sister, Lysa's actions and behavior unknowingly told Daveth that she was hiding something.

"A successful courtship would make Lord Baelish acting Lord of the Vale," Pycelle added.

"Titles do seem to breed titles."

"Lady Arryn has been rather adamant that the two of you should be wed once she arrives, Lord Baelish," Daveth said.

"The deed has already been done; faded into nothing."

"And speaking of it can make it real."

Petyr sighed. "Once she arrives, then."

"It's settled then. Lord Baelish will wed Lady Arryn and bring the Eyrie and the entire Vale into the fold. This policy of isolationism has gone on long enough."

Tyrion soon interrupted the discussion. "Far be it from me to hinder true love, nephew, but Lord Baelish's absence would present certain problems," he pointed out, with Varys nodding in agreement. "The royal wedding may end up being the most expensive event in living memory. Summer has ended, winter is set to fall upon us soon, hard days lie ahead. Not a good time to leave the crown's finances unattended, wouldn't you agree?"

"If you—" Cersei tried to speak up but was silenced when Daveth raised his hand up.

The Young Stag pulled Tywin aside and started whispering into the Old Lion's ear. Each of the councilors tried to lean in to guess what the King was telling Tywin, but sadly none could make out a word. Even Cersei herself couldn't hear. All they could see was Tywin nodding his head before grandfather and grandson returned their attention.

"I agree," Daveth said finally.

"Which is why the King and I have decided to name you the new Master of Coin," Tywin replied.

Cersei chuckled silently.

"Master of Coin?" Tyrion questioned.

"It would appear to be a position to best suit your talents."

"And since you've been giving me such good counsel, uncle. I would appreciate it if you would continue to remain as one of my principal advisors in the months and years to come. You've always had a knack of meeting expectations when put under enough pressure, if I remember right. Surely you can do the same when tasked with managing the crown's budget and dealing with other financial matters, yes?"

"Nephew," Tyrion chuckled nervously, "I'm quite good at  _spending_  money, but a lifetime of outrageous wealth…? I'm afraid these things haven't taught me much about  _managing_  it."

Cersei looked at her brother. "I have no doubt you will prove equal to this challenge," she said.

"Here, here," Pycelle said as his hand connected with the table.

* * *

**In Essos, somewhere at Slaver's Bay en route to Yunkai…**

* * *

Daenerys Targaryen had reclaimed her dragons, but also punished those who betrayed her at the great city-state of Qarth and destroyed the ruling council, the Thirteen. Her once trusted handmaiden Doreah was revealed to have collaborated with Xaro Xhan Daxos in stealing the young dragons Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion; but before doing so Doreah had strangled Irri to death while Xaro had staged a coup. As punishment, and despite their pleas for mercy, both Xaro and Doreah were locked inside the merchant prince's treasure vault to die.

> _"I am the King of Qarth. I can help you now, truly help you. We can take the Iron Throne. I'll bring you a thousand ships. All that you have dreamed is within your reach!"_  Xaro's pleas rung through her head.
> 
> _"Please, Khaleesi, I beg you. I beg you, please! Khaleesi. Please! Please! Khaleesi!"_  begged Doreah as she and Xaro were being sealed inside.

Following such events, Daenerys, Jorah and her Dothraki followers had plundered Qarth of its wealth to buy a ship and sailed for Astapor to purchase 8,000 Unsullied from the slave-trader Kraznys mo Nakloz, one of the Good Masters of Astapor. The fool had been uttering slurs and insults at Daenerys in Low Valyrian; although Missandei left some parts out, Daenerys wasn't so easily fooled and knew exactly what Kraznys was saying.

"Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. (A dragon is not a slave)," she told him in High Valyrian. "Nyke Daenerys Jelmāzmo hen Targārio Lentrot, hen Valyrio Uēpo ānogār iksan. Valyrio muño ēngos ñuhys issa. (I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, of the blood of Old Valyria. Valyrian is my mother tongue.)Dracarys!"

On command, Drogon shot dragon-flame out of his mouth and burned Kraznys alive. The Unsullied, now given their freedom, had slaughtered every slaver holding a whip and removed the collars off of every slave they could find. After sacking Astapor, Daenerys hired the Second Sons mercenary group to conquer Yunkai and Meereen. The first two leaders Mero and Prendahl na Ghezn were rather rude to her, but the other one – Daario Naharis – killed his superiors and took control of the Second Sons.

"The people here will not forget the kindness you've shown them," Missandei commented.

Daenerys looked at her new handmaiden. "If we can right so much wrong here, then we will make the world a better place; much more. No one—man, woman, child—will be forced to suffer the lash of the slave-master's whips. One by one, slavery will be abolished in every city. And those who've wronged innocent people will die screaming."

Missandei couldn't help but feel excited at the prospect of every slave living in Essos being granted their freedom, and all that comes with it. The will to decide one's own fate and live their lives the way they want to. Even Jorah couldn't help but feel a glimpse of hope at the prospect.

"The people living here have been through a lot, my Queen," Jorah added. "You'll be fair to them, righting every injustice. You won't mutilate any of them to make a point nor order them to murder babies. You'll see they're properly fed and sheltered."

The three passed by a couple of crates and a little girl came out of hiding.

"Excuse me, lady," she called out to Daenerys, holding out a hollow wooden sphere. "I got this for you."

Daenerys smiled warmly. "Why thank you," she said as she crouched to pick it up.

The little girl motioned for her to twist it. But as Daenerys was about to twist the orb, a hooded man branding a dagger ran by a knocked it from her hands.

***BAM!***

Jorah was quick to take the man by the throat as Daenerys fell to the ground and saw the ball unraveling before her, revealing a live manticore; highly aggressive and extremely venomous scorpion-like insects with six legs and a large stinger-tail, one sting is usually enough to kill a person. Daenerys froze as she saw the manticore scurrying towards her. As Daenerys backed away, the cloaked figure managed to stab the insect before it could get close.

***STAB!***

 

They all looked on to see the same child glare at them with a blue mouth and teeth, like the deceased Qarth warlock Pyat Pree before her. The girl ran and jumped off the deck as the cloaked man gave chase. Looking over the side, he determined the would-be-assassin had disappeared.

"Warlocks," he muttered. "They never seem to learn."

Jorah turned to see the man garbed in a red wolf-skin cloak, red armor and red boots. Once he turned, Jorah could see his face. The man was clean shaven with a lined, leathery face with crow's feet at the corners of his pale, blue eyes. His red hair had turned grey, though still mostly red with ash showing here and there.

Daenerys got to her feet and turned to her savior. "I owe you my life, ser," she thanked him.

"No need to start thanking me yet, child," he said gruffly as he pulled off his hood to reveal his face. He had looked a few years older than Jorah. "Or should I call you… my Queen?"

Jorah looked at him closely, taking in every detail of his face.

"Ser Jorah," Daenerys asks. "Do you know this man?"

Jorah nodded. "Oh, I know him. That's one of Robert Baratheon's bannermen," he said with contempt.

"I  _was_  one of his bannermen, but don't forget that unlike you I fought for House Targaryen against the Usurper and was Hand of the King to King Aerys, the Second of His Name," he corrected Jorah. "I served the Targaryens without question. But when I failed, I was exiled to this shithole country for more than twenty years, unable to go home."

"But you are…?" Daenerys pressed.

"Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost. I've known your brother, Prince Rhaegar, since we were children."

"You knew my brother?"

"Aye. That I did, child."

"Last I heard you were dead," said Jorah.

"And the last I checked, I'm still alive. Served with the Golden Company these last five years," retorted Jon. "So despite what your… sources tell you, you've heard wrong."

Daenerys looked confused. "'Sources'? Jorah, what does he mean?"

The exiled Mormont froze; the exiled Connington, however, was quick to take notice. "Ah, so you haven't told her," said Jon. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled up paper. "Child, while you and your… compatriots were wandering across the Great Grass Sea, your bear lord advisor received this letter from Westeros two years ago. Jorah Mormont is not the man you think he is. He's withheld some truths from you."

"What truths?" Daenerys did not like this.

Jorah flushed red. "Your Grace…"

Daenerys silenced him as Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion perched on their mother's shoulders. Drogon hissed and growled loudly, causing Jorah to momentarily step backwards. It was this moment Jon broke the wax seal and opened the letter and handed it to Daenerys. As she read its contents, her hands began to shake.

> _"In this year 298 AC, full pardon is granted to Ser Jorah Mormont of Bear Island by Robert Baratheon, the First of His Name."_

"Yes, child. You were being watched, as your brother Viserys was. The eunuch Varys reported every move you two have made for years. Ask your trusted advisor Ser Jorah here that since you were wed to the Dothraki horselord Khal Drogo there was a spy in your midst. Selling your secrets, trading whispers to the Spider for gold and promises. Unless you would like to suggest this document in my hand here has been forged…"

The Dragon Queen was more confused than angry. "You… thi-this has to be some kind of mistake. It must be," she looked at Jorah. "Tell him he's mistaken. We crossed the Dothraki Sea together, we traveled the Red Waste…" her breathing quickened like a bird in a trap. "Tell me he's lying, Jorah…"

"The Others take you, Connington," Jorah cursed. "Khaleesi, I… I sent letters to Varys, the spymaster of King's Landing. It was only at the start, before I came to know you…"

Daenerys backed away, feeling as if the breath in her lungs was forced out of her.

"How could you?" she asked rather hurt. "What was the content of these letters you sent to the Usurper?"

"Information."

"What information?"

"When you and Viserys arrived in Pentos. His plan to marry you to Khal Drogo. When you were married. When your brother died."

"You told him I was carrying Drogo's child?"

"I…"

"Yes or no?!" she demanded.

"Khaleesi," Jorah beseeched.

"Don't call me that!" Daenerys screamed. "Did you or did you not tell him I was carrying Drogo's child?!"

Her three dragons sensed her fury. Viserion roared, and smoke rose grey from his snout. Drogon beat the air with black wings, and Rhaegal twisted his head back and belched flame.

Jorah lowered his head in guilt. "Yes," he confessed.

"And you've been given plenty of chances to tell her," Jon pointed out. "Yet you chose not to. Why?"

"I never meant… Please, khaleesi, forgive me."

Daenerys shook her head. "You sold my secrets to the man who killed my father and stole my brother's throne… I trusted you, Mormont! And you made a fool out of me! Are all the knights of Westeros so false as you?"

"The assassin's blades sent against you were called off by the Usurper's son Daveth Baratheon himself!"

"What?"

"How are we to tell if you're lying to us still?" Jon narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "The Usurper's seed decided he had a change of heart?"

"I no longer have a reason to lie now that you all know the truth about me," Jorah spoke. "I sent the Oathkeeper reports about you and Viserys. How the behavioral patterns between you two were different. He wanted to know if there was even a trace of madness as there was in your father and brother…"

Jon's brow twitched at the mere mention of the infamous Targaryen madness. No doubt he believes Daenerys herself believed everything Viserys had told her. That all the stories said about her father King Aerys II Targaryen were false and untrue.

"Any other man and I would have you executed," Daenerys said sternly and firmly. "But you… I don't even want to see you again. If you ever come before me past break of day, I will have your head thrown into Slaver's Bay provided my dragons haven't roasted you alive first. I wonder what roast liar smells like? Go. Now!"

Daenerys screamed as she felt hot tears on her cheeks. Drogon screeched, lashing his tail back and forth. "The Others can have you. Come, Lord Connington," she said.

"Yes, Your Grace," nodded Jon.

Jorah did not move, keeping his gaze on Jon Connington as he watched them walk away from him. Daario, Missandei, Grey Worm, the Unsullied and Second Sons… all of them. The exiled Northern lord walked away, taking a backwards glance before resuming.

 _'Forgive me, khaleesi,'_  he thought.  _'I'll find a way to make it up to you… I'll prove my loyalty somehow.'_

* * *

**At Riverrun…**

* * *

Catelyn looked out the window of her once childhood home. The funeral of her father, Lord Hoster Tully, saddened her. As customaries dictate when a member of House Tully dies, Hoster was laid to rest on a funeral boat which is then set afloat on the Red Fork of the Trident. Edmure, now the new Lord of Riverrun, tried to set the boat aflame with a flaming arrow so his ashes will return to the river which sustains their lands as per Tully funeral tradition but missed every shot. His uncle Brynden, annoyed, took Edmure's bow away and carried out his nephew's duty instead – the flaming arrow hitting its mark with a single shot as soon as the wind changed direction. Even her children Robb, Sansa and Arya felt their mother's pain.

"Mother…" Sansa consoled Catelyn.

"It'll be all right, mother," Arya chimed in. "We're here for you."

Robb left early to speak with his uncle Edmure. Apparently there had been reports that the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane, was spotted scouring the Reach and was en route to the capital city of King's Landing itself. The new Lord of Winterfell told one of the attendants to send word to King Daveth at once. Catelyn remained motionless as Brynden entered the same room. He always knew where his niece was at when Catelyn was a little girl.

"Brings back old memories," Brynden reminisced. "It often comforts me to think that even in our darkest days, in most places in the world absolutely nothing is happening."

Catelyn turned to look up at him. "I've missed you, uncle," she smiled sadly. "Father missed you, too, from the day you left. Maybe he never said it in so many words…"

" _Maybe_? Your father was a stubborn old ox. I was surprised when he died. Didn't think death had the patience."

"I'm glad you were with him. I wish to the Gods I had been. Did you make peace in the end?"

Brynden chuckled. "After thirty years of fighting, I don't think he remembered what started it. He asked me to stop calling myself Blackfish. He said it was an old joke and it was never funny to begin with. I told him people had been calling me Blackfish for so long, they don't remember my real name."

Catelyn nodded, pleased to hear that her father and uncle ended up making peace with each other in Hoster's final hours of life. "Every time he would leave for the capital or fight in a campaign, I'd see him off. 'Wait for me, little Cat,' he'd say. 'Wait for me, and I'll come back to you.' And I would sit at this window every day when the sun came up, waiting."

Bryden could hear Catelyn's voice start to crack and he knew she was about to cry, crying for the loss of her father, her husband.

"I wonder… how many… how many… Gods, I-I will never see them again," Catelyn's sobs made her words almost inaudible. She had been stricken with grief.

Brynden sat down and held his niece close. "You mustn't think it," he consoled her. "Just because Hoster and Ned are no longer with us, that doesn't mean they are forgotten. Take heart, Cat, that the best of them lives on in you. The best of all of us. Robb, Sansa, Arya, Bran and Rickon, the best of our family lives on in them as well. You will always have that. We will always be family. Robb must go on believing that, but he'll need your help. And you must remain strong for him and the rest of your children."

The two stared at each other for some time, and it appeared that Catelyn's tears stopped flowing and no longer cried in a while. She felt strong again. In another room, Sansa had gathered her belongings and prepped herself for the return travel to King's Landing. She attended her grandfather's funeral along with most of her family in attendance.

 

"Planning on leaving already?" Arya asked impatiently.

Sansa turned to look at her sister. "Not for a while," she said. "I had to be here for our mother. Once things have been taken care of, then I'll be expected to return to King's Landing."

"Haven't seen mother like this since… since father died."

"I know. I'm glad the King allowed us to come here."

"One of his redeeming qualities, I guess," Arya mused. To Sansa, it appeared that the wild she-wolf was beginning to warm up to Daveth. "Glad he at least understood what it means to tend to the needs of family. Well, all except for one."

 _'Joffrey,'_  Sansa suspected. She shook her head. "I know what you're thinking, Arya. But Daveth is not like Joffrey, nor any of the rest of his family. He's…"

"I know, I know. The ideal King. Something most little girls often tend to dream about just like you did when the Baratheons came to Winterfell two years ago."

"Feels as if it was a lifetime ago," Sansa reflected.

"That it does."

Both the Stark sisters had noticeably gotten along during these last several years. Arya was still determined to follow her own path as a warrior-maiden; whereas Sansa was set to become the new Queen, but she had since grown more confident in herself and matured into her own power and influence as a political force in her own right, devoting her efforts to lessen the burdens of the King and preparing the capital for winter – earning her the grudging respect of the lords and adoration of the smallfolk. Daveth's influence, no doubt.

"Still planning to have me bow and call you 'Your Grace'?" Arya japed.

Sansa chuckled. "Not when you put it like that, no," she said as the Stark maiden reflected on her past self. "Only when we're in public, but I'll still just be your sister Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Does it bother you?"

"I'd be lying if I said no. I was never going to be as good a lady as you. So I had to be something else."

"You're one of the strongest people I know."

Arya raised an eyebrow. "Why, sister, I believe that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

"Well, don't get used to it," Sansa joked. "You're still very strange and annoying."

The Stark sisters shared a laugh together. As they look across the beautiful Riverrun skies, both were aware of the coming winter.  _"In winter, we must protect ourselves._ _Look after one another."_  These were the words of their father, the late Eddard Stark. Sansa and Arya were beginning making the necessary arrangements for the approaching winter. They all somewhat knew of the possibilities of what would happen if the winter did indeed become the longest cold in over 1,000 years.

"Winter is coming," they both said.

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Cersei Lannister sat in her room, holding a decorative seashell. Her sleeveless crimson dress shined as the sunlight rays eked into the room. It's been close to midday and she had been contemplating on current events as well as those of the past. A brief civil war, Joffrey exiled to the Wall, Myrcella shipped off to Dorne to marry a Martell, and Tommen betrothed to marry a Tyrell girl. It had seemed a lot for her to take in.

She continued fiddling with the seashell as images of her eldest son flashed before her eyes.

> _"Mama!"_  called a smiling 3-year-old Daveth.

Cersei stopped tracing her finger across the shell as soon as old memories were coming, smiling at one of her earliest memories she had with Daveth.

> _"Look, mama! Look what I did!"_
> 
> _"Mama!"_
> 
> _"I love you, mama."_

The Golden Lioness sighed and shook her head. Why was this happening to her now?

> _"Mama…"_  whined a sickly 4-year-old Daveth, coughing when he became ill with the dreaded fever that nearly took his life.
> 
> _"Don't go, mama… Please…"_
> 
> _"Where's mama?"_

Cersei felt her hand beginning to tighten its grip on the seashell, not caring if the edges were digging into her skin.

> _"My friends… they're all… gone. Every single one of them,"_  said a rather despondent, emotionally broken 8-year-old Daveth.
> 
> _"Why? Why did they do this?"_
> 
> _"I hate them, mother! I hate the Ironborn! I hate the Greyjoys! I HATE THEM ALL!"_
> 
> _"I will not be the kind of King like father is. I'll forge a new path for myself, and bring the Seven Kingdoms to where it needs to be!"_
> 
> _"I am not my father."_
> 
> _"Do I look like father to you?"_

Cersei seemed to be rather motionless as more and more flashbacks including her eldest son presented themselves within her mind.

> _"You even think about trying to undermine me like you did during the battle at Blackwater Bay again, and I'll send you back to Casterly Rock."_

 

She frowned deeply at that recent statement. She was his mother, and he still had the nerve to talk to her like that. Cersei knew Daveth was in many ways different from Robert, but at the same time he was so different from her. What was going on? Why couldn't she understand Daveth? Cersei still had reflecting back on the witch's prophesied words, unaware of the figure standing behind her at her door.

"Cersei," a voice called out to her.

She recognized that voice! Turning around, Cersei saw her twin brother Jaime Lannister standing before her. His hair had been muddied, his beard had grown and showed a few strands of gray. In the condition Jaime was in, wearing the same old raggedy clothes for over a year, Cersei hardly recognized her brother.

"Jaime," she finally spoke.

Jaime looked down briefly, both his hands twitching slightly. Cersei knew deep down that something about her brother had changed. But what was it?

"I… I'm home," he said.


	33. Mance Rayder / Balon Greyjoy

* * *

**At one of Riverrun's guest rooms…**

* * *

 

The rays of the sunlight shine through the window into Robb Stark's room. He had apparently chosen to spend the night with his family after attending his grandfather's funeral. With his uncle Edmure Tully the new Lord of Riverrun, it was a period of adjustment for the people swearing fealty to the new Lord Paramount of the Riverlands. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, Robb looked at the foot of his bed to see Grey Wind still sleeping; the direwolf twitched slightly during one of his dream cycles. Alongside him laid another; stirring in her sleep was a naked Talisa Maegyr. Apparently during their travels together the two had grown rather… intimate; more so as of late. Robb smiled at the foreign Volantene woman as she began to open her eyes.

"Good morning, my lady," Robb greeted.

Talisa yawned. "Good morning, my lord," she rubbed her eyes.

Robb rubbed his hand against her arm before bringing it up to her cheeks. "Did I wake you? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No," she shook her head and kissed Robb's hand. "You were amazing."

Robb leaned down to kiss Talisa, who in turn reciprocated. "How did I, the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, end up being so lucky as to have a woman like you?" he joked.

Taelisa raised an eyebrow in amusement. "And how did I, a foreigner groomed to be a proper lady, play the harp and dance the latest steps and recite Valyrian poetry, end up being so lucky as to be with a man like you?"

"I'd like to hear you play the harp."

"No. No, you would not."

Robb laughed as he watched Talisa slide out of bed to put on her morning gown. As he stood, Grey Wind woke up and jumped off the bed – ready to start the day. "I'm curious," he spoke as he put his clothes on. "How did you go from reciting Valyrian poetry to sawing off men's feet?"

"When I was 12, my mother and father went to a wedding. Weddings in Volantis last for days, you know. And they left me with my little brother. The second afternoon they were gone was the hottest day in the three-year summer. We couldn't bear to be inside, so we ran down to the Rhoyne. Every child in Volantis was in the Rhoyne that day. The rich, the poor, we were all there, naked, screaming, racing to the little islands. Drummers were playing for coppers on the east bank. I was treading water, talking to a friend when I realized I hadn't seen my brother. I called his name. Then I started screaming his name. And then I saw him floating face down. My heart just… stopped. I was… I dragged him from the water. My friend helped me, I think. I don't even remember. He was so little."

Robb felt his stomach twist into knots; the thought of losing any of his brothers and sisters always frightened him. To hear how Talisa lose hers…

"Then we pulled him onto the riverbank... and I screamed at him and I shook him and he was dead. Just dead. A man ran over. He had a fish tattoo on his face. In Volantis the slaves have tattoos so you know what they are without having to talk to them. And this man worked on a fishing boat. And he pushed me out of the way." Talisa looked at Robb. "You have to understand, for a slave to push a highborn girl… that's death for the man, a terrible death. But he pushed me out of the way and he started pressing on my brother's chest again and again and again until my brother spat out half of the Rhoyne and cried out. And the man cradled his head and told him to be calm. I decided two things that day: I would not waste my years planning dances and masquerades with the other noble ladies. And when I came of age… I would never live in a slave city again."

_'So that's why,'_  Robb realized thoughtfully.

***KNOCK, KNOCK***

"Who is it?" Robb called out.

"It's Theon, Robb."

Robb opened the door and Theon Greyjoy came strolling in, stopping as he saw Talisa sitting on the opposite side of the bed. Theon gave a wicked grin as he turned to Robb.

"Well well, Robb, you never told me you had, uh… ' _company_ '; never thought of you as the sort. Should I leave and come back later?"

Talisa blushed furiously.

"Theon," Robb warned embarrassed.

Theon raised his hands up. "Relax, I was just kidding!" he jokingly proclaimed innocence before turning serious. "A word, my lord? In private."

Talisa finished fixing her hair and stood up. "I guess I have to leave now. My lord," she curtsied.

Robb nodded and Talisa left the room, leaving Theon and Robb alone.

"You don't have to call me 'my lord' when no one's around."

"It's not so bad once you get used to it."

"I'm glad someone's gotten used to it. Anyway, Theon, you wanted to speak to me?"

Theon nodded. "I did. Your sister Sansa's already left for King's Landing this morning with the royal wedding being around the corner, no doubt. If you'd like, I could take my leave to go to the Iron Islands and deliver some gifts on my father's behalf."

_'The Iron Islands…?'_  Robb thought suspiciously. "Balon's men fought my father and Daveth's, Theon," he points out.

"I know. I know that. My father's men fought King Robert to free themselves from the yoke of the south, yes, but that was then. And this is now. I'm his only living son. I'm sure he'll listen to me. I know I'm not a Stark, but your father raised me to be an honorable man. It's the least I can do for him."

Robb looked out the window, uncertain of whether or not to approve of Theon's sudden request. After all, Balon Greyjoy was a harsh and fierce man, yet more than that the Lord Reaper of Pyke was as ambitious as he is ruthless. Eleven years ago, he rebelled against the Iron Throne to revive the "Old Way" and declared himself King of the Iron Islands. The Old Way philosophy centers around the concept of "paying the iron price": to seize any wealth or possession by force. To pay the "gold price", buying or trading for items, is shameful for any man. The rebellion was short, however, and Balon was soundly defeated and forced to bend the knee after losing his two older sons along with the entire Iron Fleet. Theon was sent to Winterfell as a ward/hostage for his good behavior. If word were to reach King Daveth's ears, the Oathkeeper would be vocally and  _vehemently_  opposed to the request – considering his past history with the ironborn. But Robb knew Theon a lot longer than Daveth did.

"All right, Theon," Robb concedes.

Theon smiles. "You won't regret this, Robb. I swear it."

"Just be sure to make it on time for my sister's wedding."

"Will do. Just don't start without me."

The young Greyjoy bowed slightly and left the room, clearly intending to take a boat to the Iron Islands to gather some gifts to give to the King and soon-to-be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms on behalf of House Greyjoy and the Iron Islands. It was a tradition throughout the realm whenever a monarch gets married.

* * *

**Somewhere at the Frostfangs, beyond the Wall…**

* * *

__

__

_A large party of Night's Watchmen range through the woods on horseback._ The assembled party dubbed the "Great Ranging" was organized by the 997th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch Jeor Mormont to the lead the enormous expedition to lands beyond the Wall in response to numerous reports of Free Folk villages being found empty and wildlings amassing in numbers, the discovery of wights in the Haunted Forest and the disappearance of First Ranger Benjen Stark as well as other rangers. With an elite force of 300 men–almost one third of the whole manpower of the Night's Watch–it showed the Old Bear was taking the reports very seriously.

"We know what's out there, but we have to make it, have to warn them or before winter's done, everyone you've ever known will be dead," Jeor reminded Jon Snow before the Great Ranging began.

Jon had separated from the main group with Qhorin Halfhand, yet initially captured the quick-witted spearwife Ygritte before she turned the tables and brought them to a large Free Folk camp with the Lord of Bones. On the way, however, Qhorin secretly concocted a plan to install Jon as a spy within King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder's army and lashed out at the Stark bastard – which ended in Qhorin's death at Jon's hands, catching Ygritte and the other Free Folk off-guard. Upon arriving at the wildling camp, Jon could see tents were made of animal hide and whale bones, the wildlings glared fiercely at the Stark bastard as he walked by. Jon soon stopped in his tracks as he saw a giant carrying whale bones past him; a race of non-humanoids considered to be myths and legends by those living south of the Wall. They're said to be over twice the size of the average man measuring approximately 12 to 14 feet tall with blocky facial features and are as strong as a dozen humans.

"First time you've seen a giant, Jon Snow?" Ygritte jabbed at him.

Jon's fascination dissipated and nodded.

"Well, don't stare too long. They're shy. And when they stop being shy, they get angry, I've seen them pound a man straight into the ground like a hammer on a nail."

The giant picked up one of the whale bones and began smacking it into the ground with its fist. The giant soon stopped and turned to directly stare at Jon, its face contorting into a vicious growl – which sent him scurrying off a bit. Ygritte found Jon's reaction very amusing.

"Crow!" they hollered as they pointed at Jon.

"Crow!"

"Look over there! Crow!"

"Ah, look, crow coming!"

Jon said nothing as Ygritte led him on, occasionally being pelted with rocks and twigs that were hurled at him by the wildling children.

"You're wearing the wrong color," she pointed out.

"Mance was a ranger once," Jon tried to counter.

"In your hearts, all you crows want to fly free."

"When I'm free, will I be free to go?" he asked, growing increasingly bitter after so many rocks were thrown at him.

"Sure, you will. And I'll be free to kill you."

Ygritte took Jon's sheathed blade and smacked one of the boys that tried to run up and hit Jon Snow in the face with a rock. She quickly turned and pushed another man to the ground. By that time, they got the message and all laughed it off. Nothing was very serious to them than their own survival.

"They've got no respect, this lot. Their fathers need to slap them with their foul. Beat them when they're this bad, even."

"What happened to their fathers?"

"Some were killed by crows like you. Be it, out hunting, ambushed. Some even shot down from the Wall," Ygritte answered, trying to contain the bitterness she felt growing inside her. "Don't be so grim, Jon Snow. If Mance Rayder likes you, and you do as he says, you'll live to see another day. And if he don't…"

Jon said nothing as he had already gotten the idea and was brought inside Mance Rayder's camp to meet the King-Beyond-the-Wall in the flesh, though he was shoved by the Lord of Bones once more first. A couple high-ranking Free Folk chieftains were inside sitting either sharpening their blades or feasting on whatever slabs of meat were available to them. The most noticeable one in particular, the one the other wildlings call Tormund Giantsbane, had a large red beard.

  

"I smell a crow," he snorted.

"We killed his friends," one of Jon's captors spoke. "Thought you'd want to question this one yourself."

The wildling chief stood, his shoulders were broad and he had massive arms. Jon felt intimidated by this man's presence as he towered over him.

"What do we want with a baby crow?"

"This baby crow killed Qhorin Halfhand," Ygritte explained. "He wants to be one of us."

"That half-handed cunt killed friends of mine, friends twice your size."

Jon stood his ground. "My father told me that big men fall just as quick as the little ones if you put a sword through their hearts."

"Plenty of little men tried to put their swords through my heart. And there's plenty of little skeletons buried in the woods. What's your name, boy?"

Jon felt his eyes drop as he bent to one knee. "Jon Snow. Your Grace."

"'Your Grace?'" Tormund said mockingly as the other Free Folks began laughing at Jon's attempt at courtesy. "Did you hear that? From now on, you'd better kneel every time I fart!"

The laughter soon died as another made his presence known. "Stand, boy," he commanded. "We don't kneel for anyone beyond the Wall."

The assembled Free Folk soon became serious as they stepped backwards a bit. Jon looked confused, but did as he was told. This wildling appeared to be much more different than the others; more… dignified, commanding. This had to be Mance Rayder.

"So, you're Ned Stark's bastard," Mance said as he examined Jon up and down. "Thank you for the gift, Lord of Bones. You can leave us." The Lord of Bones and Ygritte left the camp without saying a word, except for Tomund as he served as one of Mance's closest and most trusted lieutenants in his massive army. "The girl likes you. You like her back, Snow? That why you want to join us?"

Jon felt this throat tightening as Mance pressed the issue. A wildling by birth and a former Night's Watchmen, Mance deserted his post to return to his people north of the Wall and unified all the Free Folk tribes under his command and held the title King-Beyond-the-Wall for more than a decade. Under his command, the Free Folk were considered dangerous as Mance knew the Night's Watch and their tactics better than anyone in his encampment combined. The Northern bastard had to say something but was unsure of what to say, but Mance and Tormund already knew it almost immediately.

"Don't panic, boy," Tormund scolded Jon. "This isn't the damned Night's Watch where we make you swear off girls."

Mance chuckled. "This chicken eater you thought was king is Tormund Giantsbane."

"Still can't believe this pup killed the Halfhand."

"He was our enemy and I'm glad he's dead," Mance said, extending his hand to grip Jon's arm before pulling him close. "He was my brother once. Back when he had a whole hand. What were you doing with him?"

"The Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, sent me to the Halfhand for seasoning," Jon answered honestly.

"Why?"

"He wants me to lead one day."

"But here you are, a traitor, kneeling before the King-Beyond-the-Wall."

"If I'm a traitor, then you are, too."

Two of the high-ranking Free Folk, including Tormund, did not appreciate Jon Snow's accusatory tone. Mance Rayder, however, felt impressed by the boy's boldness.

"Why do you want to join us, Jon Snow?" he asked again.

"I want to be free."

Mance did not buy it. "No, I don't think so. I think what you want most of all is to be a hero. I'll ask you one last time, why do you want to join us?"

Jon kept his mouth shut, his mind wandering to what had occurred earlier whilst with other Watchmen of the ranging party at Craster's Keep.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _The Night's Watch ranging party was forced to move on when Jon Snow followed Craster into the woods and saw him leaving a son for the White Walkers to claim the infant. However, Craster caught and beats him._
> 
> _"Out, all of you!" Craster spat. "Bastard's been meddling where he shouldn't! I want you and your men gone. And you will make this right."_
> 
> _Lord Commander Jeor Mormont displayed a disappointed look on his face as he looked at his steward. "Wait outside," he ordered._
> 
> _"Lord Commander," Jon tried to protest._
> 
> _"NOW!" the Old Bear hollered._
> 
> _Jon Snow did as he was told and left, grumbling on the way. Finally once things had died down and Jeor managed to calm Craster, the Old Bear confronted Jon outside._
> 
> _"What did you do?" Jeor glared at him._
> 
> _"I followed him. He took the baby into the woods, the newborn."_
> 
> _"What business is that of yours?"_
> 
> _"No, you don't understand! He's killing them, all the boys—"_ _Jon stopped once he saw Jeor did not appear to be surprised at all._ _"You know…" he realized._
> 
> _"The wildlings serve crueler Gods than you or I," Jeor finally spoke. "Those boys are Craster's offerings."_
> 
> _"'Offerings'?" He's murdering his own children! He's a monster!"_
> 
> _The Old Bear nodded. "Aye, many a time that monster has been the difference between life and death for our Rangers. Your uncle Benjen among them. We have other wars to fight out there. Like it or not, we need men like Craster."_
> 
> _"I… I saw it. I saw… Something take that child."_
> 
> _"Yeah. Whatever it was, I daresay you'll see it again," Jeor confirmed. "Now ready my horse. We leave at dawn."_
> 
> **ooOoo**

"Well?" Tormund demanded, breaking Jon's concentration.

Finally gathering his wits, Jon finally began talking. "I saw…"

"You saw what?" said Mance.

"I saw Craster take his own baby boy and leave it in the woods," he answered. "I saw what took it."

Mance furrowed his brow as his facial expression changed. "You're telling me you saw one of them?"

Jon nodded.

"And why would that make you desert your brothers?"

"Because when I told the Lord Commander, he already knew. Thousands of years ago, the First Men defeated the White Walkers. I want to fight for the side that fights for the living. Did I come to the right place?"

Mance Rayder continued staring at Jon Snow, taking in the words that came out of his mouth. Finally after a few minutes, the King-Beyond-the-Wall made his decision. "We'll need to find you a new cloak."

* * *

**At Pyke…**

* * *

The gulls cawed, the waves crashed against the shores. Ships had been sailing everywhere. Theon Greyjoy had returned to the Iron Islands, but he'd been grumbling the whole way on his trip. He hadn't set foot on the Iron Islands, especially Pyke, since he was 10 years old. He'd been given to House Stark as a hostage after his father's failed rebellion and had no contact with his family since then. To be home now after so long, Theon had been expecting a warm welcome. To his great surprise, he got the exact opposite—even from his female traveling companion.

 

"Have my things sent up to the castle," Theon demanded.

"I'm a better rider than you."

"I've been on horseback for the past eleven years."

"Eleven years? Do you still know your way around a ship?" she said as she felt Theon's hands around her waist, struggling with the outfit's strings.

"Don't you worry about my hands. The sea is in my blood."

He tried to unfasten her outfit, but briefly yelped when she smacked his hands away.

"Your blood will be in the sea if I don't watch where I'm going," she warned him.

After a long ride, the two had finally managed to arrive at Pyke's gates. The doors opened, and Theon entered the Great Hall where he saw his father, Lord Balon Greyjoy, sitting in front of an open fire. The sigil of House Greyjoy, the kraken, hanged above the fireplace. As the wood burned and sparks made crackling sounds, Theon slowly approached the man he hadn't seen in so many years.

"Father," he called out.

"Eleven years, is it?" Balon asked without looking at his last surviving son. "They took a frightened boy. What have they given back?"

"A man. Your blood and your heir."

"We shall see. Stark had you longer than I did."

"Lord Stark is gone," his son countered. "He perished at King's Landing defending the Oathkeeper from invaders."

"So the Usurper's brat's acquired a new name for himself, has he…?" Balon said coldly as he turned to face Theon. His gaunt, hard face with hard eyes and long grey hair that was balding slightly on the top of his head. "And how do you feel about that? Stark being dead?"

Theon felt the atmosphere of the room change. He was a Greyjoy, but the Starks were never unkind to him when he was their ward/hostage. In fact, they treated Theon as if he were one of their own. Still, he hated at having the thought of choosing between being a Greyjoy or a Stark.

"What's done is done," Theon finally admitted. "I've brought you a request from Robb Stark."

Balon eyed his son up and down, noticing Theon's fancy attire. "Who gave you those clothes?" he asked rather coldly as Balon rose from his seat. "Was it Ned Stark's pleasure to make you his daughter?"

Theon felt his jaws clench. "If my clothes offend you, I'll change them."

"You will," his father replied. Balon leaned in and noticed the pendant Theon wore. "That bauble 'round your neck… Did you pay the iron price for it, or the gold?"

Theon said nothing as he looked down feeling humiliated, his fingers fidgeting with the pendant.

"I asked a question," Balon's voice rose. "Did you pull it from the neck of a corpse you made or did you buy it to match your fine clothes? Iron or gold?"

"Gold," Theon admitted shamefully.

Balon looked incredibly disappointed at Theon's response. Grabbing his son's pendant and cloak, the Lord Reaper of Pyke ripped them off and watched as they fell to the ground. "I'll not have my son dressed as a whore! My fears have come true. The Starks have made you theirs."

Theon felt his anger rise. "My blood is salt and iron!" he proclaimed.

"Yet the Stark boy sends you to me like a trained raven clutching his message," Balon countered mockingly.

"The offer he makes is one I proposed."

"He heeds your counsel?"

"I've lived with him," Theon nodded, "hunted with him, trained with him. He thinks of me as a brother."

At that Balon was angrily reminded of his two elder sons Rodrik and Maron, who both died in the rebellion against the Iron Throne on their father's behalf. He did not appreciate being reminded of that and quickly turned to face Theon. "No," Balon snarled. "Not here, not in my hearing. You will not name him brother, this son of the man who put your true brothers to the sword. And the son of a dead king who played his part in it as well. Or have you forgotten your own blood?"

"I forget nothing!" Theon rebutted. "I remember my brothers. And I remember when my father was a king himself."

Balon looked at the parchment Theon held in his hand. He took it from his son and broke the wax and opened it up to read it. "I see," he examined it. "A gift on behalf of House Greyjoy to Robb Stark's pretty little sister, a Stark girl who will soon be a Queen… to that Young Stag."

"Yes, father. And your response?"

Balon shook his head as the main door opened again. Theon turned and noticed his companion waltzing into the Great Hall as if she owned the place.

"I told you to wait outside!" Theon exclaimed. "How did you get past the guards?"

"Anything with a cock is easy to fool," she replied.

Balon grinned. "My dear Yara," he greeted.

Theon blinked as he finally recognized who the older woman truly was, much to his deep embarrassment and humiliation. "Yara?!" he exclaimed.

"So good to see you, brother. This is a homecoming I'll tell my grandchildren about. Remember?"

"Father, you can't be serious!" Theon protested, realizing his sister had all but effectively replaced him as their father's heir.

"This isn't Winterfell, boy," Balon silenced him. "Your sister took over command of your eldest brother Rodrik's ship after your new father killed him."

"What's dead may never die," they all recited the words commonly associated with House Greyjoy as well as the faith of the Drowned God.

"The only nights she's spent off these islands have been spent on the sea," Balon explained as he threw the Robb Stark's letter into the fire. "She's commanded men. She's killed men. She knows who she is. And I know myself. I pay the iron price. That is who we have always been."

Theon was piecing together what his father was saying. "Father," he tried to warn him. "Even if we did manage to successfully launch an attack on the mainland, they'll never stand for it.  _Daveth Baratheon_  will not stand for it. We simply don't have enough men. Our house and the Iron Islands will be wiped out this time."

Balon ignored him. "What is dead may never die," he said simply. "And I  _will_  take my crown."

Theon gulped, knowing full well what this meant. It seems there will be another Greyjoy Rebellion after all. Except this time, House Greyjoy and the ironborn will be shown no mercy whatsoever.


	34. Conspiracies Unravelled

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

King Daveth I Baratheon stood at his desk, staring at the inner contents of  _The Lineages and Histories of the Great Houses_  for Gods know how long. Never in his life had he felt so… sick; betrayed, even. He traced his index finger across the pages detailing House Baratheon's lineage and appearance of its heirs… and comparing them to a certain Great House of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Robert Baratheon, black of hair, Daveth Baratheon, black of hair," Daveth read quietly to himself so no one could hear him. "Joffrey Baratheon, golden-haired… Myrcella Baratheon, golden-haired… Tommen Baratheon, golden-haired…"

Who knows how many times Daveth read the old tome. Again and again, he flipped between House Baratheon and House Lannister. And every time, the answer was always the same.

_"Your brothers and sister are not your father's children. They have no actual claim to the throne,"_  the late Lord Eddard Stark's last words rung repeatedly through his head before he died.  _"Jon Arryn learned the truth. That's why he died."_

"Tywin Lannister, golden-haired," he continued. "Cersei Lannister, golden-haired… Jaime Lannister, golden-haired… Tyrion Lannister, golden-haired…"

The Young Stag shook his head in utter bewilderment and realization as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. As it turns out, the rumor that surrounded his mother Cersei which spread during Renly's rebellion—one he originally thought was a disgusting lie—actually had  _merit_! Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are all bastards born of incest between Cersei and his uncle Jaime; meaning they all had no claim to the Iron Throne. Daveth could care less what happens to Joffrey even after exiling him to the Wall, but Myrcella and Tommen…? He loved them and had a hand in raising them himself as if they were his own; just the thought of the two of them being ostracized as abominations in the eyes of the Faith of the Seven, or worse, killed… Daveth felt his head spin and stomach being tied into knots. He shook his head once more and slammed the book closed as a knock on the door snapped his concentration.

***KNOCK, KNOCK!***

"It's open," Daveth called out.

The door opened and Tommen entered the room. The boy was only 13 years old, but Tommen still displayed the same innocent smile whenever he looked up at his eldest brother… no, his  _half-brother_. Daveth looked at Tommen, but couldn't change the way he felt no matter how bad the truth stung. His brother, no… half-brother, he had to remind himself… was a good, innocent child like Myrcella is, too. They may not have the same father, but they still shared the same mother. For the first time in his life, as much as it was for Myrcella and Tommen's sake, Daveth planned to take the darkest truth in history with him to his grave. Gods forgive him. It was a sin that would weigh heavily on his soul.

 

"What's that?" Tommen asked, pointing to the book.

Daveth sighed. "I was just filing in the latest entries to this dusty old relic. Lady Reina of Summerhall had just given birth to a boy with her husband Lord Durran," he lied.

The blonde-haired Baratheon blinked in curiosity, but bought it. "Which houses are they from again?" he asked.

"Reina is of House Fishport and Durran is of House Northborne. And before you ask any more questions, their houses are rather new. Just like House Seaworth."

"Oh."

"Now, is there something you wanted?"

"Yes, brother. Lady Lysa and her son just arrived at the capital with her household guards to swear fealty. They're in the throne room with Lord Baelish right now."

_'Perfect timing,'_  thought Daveth. "Very good, Tommen. That will be all," he said.

Before he could leave, Tommen called out to Daveth again. "Brother," he spoke up, fidgeting his fingers slightly. "Are you… all right?"

"I'm fine, Tommen. Just leave it at that."

Tommen swore he flinched slightly, but kept his mouth shut. Thinking quickly, the boy believed he could somehow put his eldest brother into a different mood if he changed the subject. "What about… well, you know…"

"Your wedding to Margaery Tyrell will take place once you come of age. Until then, I'd advise you to be patient. Trust me. Patience has its own rewards."

"I understand, brother. Thank you."

Daveth said nothing as he walked pass Tommen to proceed towards the throne room. The Vale had been remaining isolated for far too long, and with Lady Lisa and Robin coming all the way to swear fealty—mostly at the outspoken behest of their bannermen—the Vale would be brought back into the fold upon betrothing Lisa to Lord Petyr Baelish. Still, Daveth had not seen Lisa Arryn in over two years prior to her husband's passing; from what reports he could gather, Lisa was still a rather odd fish. Daveth still held his suspicions about her, but had to keep it well hidden until something incriminating turned up. After a long walk, Daveth saw all assembled before the Iron Throne: Lady Lisa Arryn, her son Robin Arryn, her handmaiden Eleana Fyste, Lord Yohn Royce, Lady Anya Waynwood and Ser Vance Corbray. Lord Baelish himself had been keeping the Vale noble guests occupied until the King arrived.

  

Petyr was the first to notice Daveth's arrival. "Your Grace, welcome," he greeted.

"Your Grace," the Vale nobles knelt.

Lady Regent Lysa Arryn, meanwhile, had eyed Daveth up and down – studying him cautiously. Even as mentally unstable as she was, the widow Arryn had spent enough time with him in King's Landing during her late husband Jon's tenure as Hand of the King to know Daveth. He was only a child back then. She hadn't seen him in nearly three years, but things changed. Lysa kept up appearances as usual, learning how to keep whatever motives she had to herself.

  

"Your Grace," Lysa curtsied with a strained smile. "It's been a long time."

"Hello," Robin greeted. The eleven-year-old had grown as well, but Daveth observed how the young Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East carried himself.

_'Pitiful,'_  he tactfully concluded.  _'The boy is nothing like his father Jon Arryn! Intellectually stunted, shamelessly spoiled, easily distracted, and having lived an extremely sheltered life… These are not the traits of an effective ruler. Such behavior would only lead the Vale to utter ruin once he comes of age.'_ Regardless, Daveth nodded at Lysa's earlier statement. "Indeed it has, Lady Arryn. Thank you for coming to the capital on such notice. You must be tired from your long journey. May we offer you and your son some refreshments?"

Lysa shook her head. "You are very kind for such hospitality, but I must respectfully decline. We assure you that all is well."

Robin didn't take that kindly. "But mother!" he whined.

"Hush now," Lysa calmly scolded her son.

Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood and Ser Corbray all equally felt uncomfortable at the young Lord of the Eyrie's temper tantrum outburst in front of King Daveth as well as the Lady Regent not being firm enough to keep Robin in line.

Petyr cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should return to the focus at hand, Your Grace?"

"Of course, Lord Baelish," Daveth said. "Are you pleased with your betrothal, Lady Arryn?"

Lysa nodded eagerly. "Very much so, Your Grace. I consent to the match."

"Of course, that means that the other end of the bargain must be upheld as well for the match to officially be considered," Petyr reminded all assembled.

Lord Royce, Lady Waynwood and Ser Corbray remained knelt before the King, but felt their stomachs twist in knots as they did  _not_  approve of the match with such a devious little man. Regardless of their opinion, Lysa did not care. Whatever it took to secure the match between her and the only man she's ever loved.

The Lady Regent knelt before Daveth. "Your Grace."

Robin was a little but slow, but eventually took a cue from his mother and knelt as well. "Your Grace," he repeated.

Daveth felt his lips curl into a satisfactory smile. This act of fealty meant that the Vale would now return to the fold. And what's more… all was going accordingly to plan. He was pleased. "I see the Vale continues to adhere by the words of House Arryn. Impressive. You may rise."

Lysa, Robin and the Vale lords all rose to their feet. With the Vale now back into the fold, the atmosphere in the throne room changed as Petyr leaned in to whisper into Daveth's ear. "Your Grace, I believe that the merchant lords of Lys and Tyrosh are bound to arrive for the trade negotiations. Best not to keep them waiting, don't you agree?"

Daveth didn't like being told what to do, especially from Littlefinger. But he was right about this though: Lys and Tyrosh sent representatives to discuss trade, and it'd be considered rude to keep them delayed longer than they would have liked. Even so, he nodded and looked at the assembled crowd. "My apologies, my lords and ladies, but I fear I must cut this short. Lord Baelish can have his people see you to your rooms," Daveth informed them before leaving with two of his Kingsguard knights in tow.

Lysa turned to her handmaiden. "Eleana, be a dear and escort my son and the lords and ladies to their rooms. I need to have a word with Lord Baelish.  _Alone_."

"Yes, my lady."

"My lady," Lord Royce interrupted. "Don't you think—"

"I SAID NOW!" Lysa hollered.

Eleana took Robin by the hand, motioning him and the other Valemen to follow her to the royal apartments. Once they were sure they were now alone, Lysa pulled Petyr aside. "Let's get married tonight," she whispered insistently.

Petyr raised an eyebrow. "Ought we not… inform the lords of the Vale about the ceremony? They did come all this way here with you."

Lysa shook her head adamantly as if she was about to cry. "There's only  _one_  lord of the Vale. The others can all hang. Lurking and simpering on the stairs like buzzards the moment my husband died, trying to get their claws in me."

"I do think that we could wait until…"

"I'm done waiting, Petyr," she stomped a foot, her voice mixed with heat and hurt. "We had our wedding night many years ago. Or don't you remember?"

"Like it was yesterday."

"What wife would do the things I've done for you?" Lysa demanded, trying to be as quiet as possible. "What wife would trust you the way I've trusted you? When you gave me those drops and told me to pour them into Jon's wine. My husband's wine. And you told me to write a letter to Cat telling her it was the Lannisters—"

Before Lysa could continue her ranting, Petyr hushed her by pulling Lysa close to him and pressed his lips to hers in a passionate kiss — either as if trying to silence her or suspecting someone would listen.

Petyr pulled away. "Tonight it is, then."

Lysa's worries melted away and she giggled like an excited little girl.

"Let me bathe and dress for the occasion. Once I'm more presentable, I'll call on the septon immediately."

Not even listening, Lysa snapped her fingers and once the doors opened, it revealed a rather startled septon accompanied by two of her household guards. Petyr's face twisted into a rather uncomfortable look, as if he hadn't been surprised by Lysa's impatience and insistence that they be wed upon her arrival.

"I'm warning you. I'm going to scream when my husband makes love to me," Lysa proclaimed. "I'm going to scream so loud, they'll hear me clear across the Narrow Sea."

Unbeknownst to Lysa and Petyr, someone had indeed been listening to their conversation rather closely. As Lysa planted small kisses along Petyr's cheek and neck, her handmaiden Eleana overheard everything. Her eyes went wide and she clutched her dress closely. Her whole life tending to her mistress, Eleana Fyste believed Lady Lysa Arryn's insistence that House Lannister was responsible for the death of the late Jon Arryn and were after his son and heir Robin. Lysa never loved Jon Arryn – that was something Eleana and the other lords had known for several years now, one they had accepted. Now the handmaiden knew why. It was her mistress's affair with Lord Baelish that made things more dangerous.

She turned on her heel and scurried to find King Daveth, quickly and as quietly as she could to avoid being detected.

"I've got to tell the lords. I've got to tell the King!"

Now that Eleana learned the truth, she rushed to find a way to prove what very few would in the capital would believe.

* * *

**In one of the royal apartments…**

* * *

  

Ser Jaime Lannister had been brushing his golden locks—now shown to be short. Since he had returned to the capital, he had taken the liberty to cut his hair short and trim his beard. Ser Barristan had informed Jaime he was due a haircut as somewhat of a joke. Whilst getting a haircut, Jaime took it upon himself to shave as well. He looked much cleaner, younger even. 

Qyburn, the old man tending to the last cuts Jaime sustained during his brush with Tarly troops, applied some ointment and brushed it to the side with his thumb. A former maester of the Citadel, Qyburn was stripped of his chain by the Archmaesters and banished from the order as punishment for conducting illegal human experimentation: that he had been vivisecting men in his pursuit of medical knowledge. While his methods were unethical and reviled, Qyburn was still recognized as one of the most talented healers in all of Westeros.

"There now," Qyburn sighed. "I believe that should do it. How does it feel?"

"A bit practical, but I'm sure it'll make do," Jaime quipped.

Cersei Lannister, standing on the opposite side of the room with a cup of wine in one hand, turned to glare directly at her twin brother. "You're such an ingrate," she chastised. "Better to see those wounds tended to before they grow to be infected."

Qyburn packs up his stuff to leave and Cersei courteously walks him to the door.

"Thank you for your help in the other matter."

"The symptoms have abated?"

"Gone completely. I am in your debt, Maester Qyburn."

Qyburn shook his head. "Not a maester, Your Grace, but happy to help whenever I can."

Once Qyburn leaves and shuts the door behind him, Jaime turns to look at Cersei.

"Odd little man," he remarked.

"I've grown rather fond of him," Cersei retorted slightly amused. "He's quite talented, you know."

Jaime doesn't like the sound of that. "What symptoms?" he asks.

"Symptoms that are not your concern."

Jaime mulls this over then has a sudden revelation. If Qyburn was treating Cersei medically, then he would have had to touch her.

"You let him touch you?"

"You jealous?"

"Surprised," he corrected her, shaking his head. "You never let Pycelle near you."

Cersei laughs mirthlessly. "You think I'd let that old lecher put his hands on me? He smells like a dead cat."

"I'm not sure I've ever smelled a dead cat."

"Well, they smell like Pycelle."

Jaime continued observing Cersei's change in behavior and noticed her posture changed since he last saw her. Something warned his instincts that something was wrong. "You drink more than you used to," he realized, in a very judgmental tone of voice.

"Yes," Cersei replied rather bluntly.

"Why?"

"Hmm. Let's see," she spoke angrily, sitting down on the nearest couch. "You started a brawl in the streets with Ned Stark, got my eldest son involved in that scuffle before being sent off to war. My husband died in a tragic hunting accident."

Jaime moved over to sit next to his sister. "It must have been traumatic for you," he said sarcastically.

"My own son banished Joffrey to the Wall. My only daughter was shipped off to Dorne by my own son. We suffered through a siege."

"Last I checked it was a rather  _short_  siege."

"One that I didn't expect to survive," she continued ranting, ignoring his non-helpful interruptions. "And now I'm marrying my son to that Stark bitch, while my youngest is supposed to marry that wicked little bitch from Highgarden; the sister of a renowned pillowbiter. So…"

Cersei's unspoken message being that she has every right to drink as often as she wants to for all those reasons and so many more. Jaime scoots over beside his twin sister and placed a hand on her palm, hoping that would at least calm her down a bit. Cersei noticed it.

"You don't really plan on staying in the Kingsguard, do you?" she asked.

"A Kingsguard serves for life. And staying in the Kingsguard means I live right here in the Red Keep with you."

He moves to tug at the laces of Cersei's dress, but she annoyingly swats his hand away.

"Not now. I want…"

The Kingslayer looked surprised at his sister's sudden act of rejection. "'Not now'?" he protests. "If not now, then when? I've been back for almost two weeks now!" His annoyance changed as realization crept on his face. "Something's changed…"

" _Everything_  has changed!" Cersei agreed angrily. "You come back after all this time with no apologies and expect everything to be the same?"

"What do you want me to apologize for?"

"For leaving me!" she said obviously. No one abandons the queen and expects to come back and return to her good graces.

"You think I wanted to be taken prisoner?" Jaime asks incredulously, as if that will make anything better.

"I don't know what you wanted, but you weren't here. You left me alone!"

"Every day I was Randyll Tarly's prisoner, I plotted my escape. Every day! I murdered people so I could be here with you! I…"

The Queen Mother had enough of her twin's excuses and whining.

"You took too long."

Jaime stopped arguing and stared blankly at Cersei as if the wind was knocked out of him once her words took root. Then it suddenly dawns on him that his position as Cersei's lover is in serious jeopardy. Though he still doesn't understand how much trouble he's in.

"What are you saying?"

"You took too long."

The Kingslayer simply said nothing as a few knocks were made on their door.

***KNOCK, KNOCK!***

"Go away!" Jaime finally shouted.

Cersei ignored him. "Come in."

The door opens revealing Cersei's handmaiden Bernadette.

"Forgive me, Your Grace. You told me to come at once if there was anything important. All the able-bodied lords and ladies are starting to gather at the city gates."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hidden secrets are now revealed as Daveth learned the truth behind his siblings' parentage as the royal wedding draws near. But how do you think it'll affect his relationship with Myrcella and Tommen in the long run? Will it further strain the relationship he has with Cersei and Jaime?


	35. A Slave Rebellion

* * *

**In Essos, somewhere in the mountains…**

* * *

  


The Dragon Queen and her army of followers had been on the march for a long time now. Among the most noticeable individuals accompanying Daenerys Targaryen was her handmaiden Missandei, Grey Worm, Daario Naharis and Jon Connington. She had not received any word on Jorah Mormont after exiling him once Connington revealed the bear knight had been spying on her, but she didn't care. Mormont had betrayed her trust, and she swore she'd never forgive him for that. With Astapor and Yunkai liberated, Daenerys set course for Meereen. Yet this constant walking on the road in the scorching heat, Daenerys was adamant that the Second Sons and Unsullied stay the course with her.

"Have you ever been to Meereen?" she asked Missandei.

She nodded. "Several times, Your Grace, with Master Kraznys."

"And?"

"They say a thousand slaves died building the Great Pyramid of Meereen."

"And now an army of former slaves is marching to her gates. You think the Great Masters are worried?"

"If they're smart, Your Grace."

"Best be prepared for anything," Connington reminded them. "No doubt word has already reached them of what happened at Astapor and Yunkai. Underestimate your opponent, you pay the price."

"Your counsel is taken under advisement, Lord Connington," Daenerys remarked. "But it's my decision to make."

Before Jon could even open his mouth to speak, the group came to a sudden stop as Daenerys held her arm up. What stood before them had left their mouths open in shock and horror. A little slave girl, couldn't have been more than nine or ten years of age, had been crucified upon a wooden cross. Judging by the coloring of her skin and how thin she was, the child had been dead for quite some time.

"There's one on every mile marker between here and Meereen."

Daenerys continued staring at the dead slave girl. "How many miles are there?"

Connington knew that tone in the Dragon Queen's voice, full of disgust and anger at such cruelty. "163," he answered. "I'll tell our men to ride ahead and bury them. You don't need to see this."

"You will do no such thing. I will see each and every one of their faces. Remove her collar before you bury her."

The Dragon Queen gently kicked the side of her horse and motioned for it to move forward, which the animal neighed in compliance. Jon, Missandei, Grey Worm, and Daario along with the Unsullied and Second Sons marched forward behind Daenerys; they could tell that seeing the crucified, dead slave girl lit a fire in her eyes. It was something they hadn't thought about seeing, but they followed Daenerys onward to Meereen to end the horrid practice of slavery and all its harsh punishments with it once and for all. Jon Connington, however, took notice of Daenerys' posture rather closely. He didn't let his expressions made public, but something seemed to unsettle him a bit. It took several days but once they rose to the highest point of the hill, their faces were mired in surprise. Smoke was rising from the nearest horizon towards their destination and a faint noise was slowly growing louder. Meereen, the greatest of the three great city-states of Slaver's Bay was within sight, but it looked as if it was currently besieged by an unknown force.

"What's going on here…?" pondered Daario.

"A siege," Jon answered, "Or an uprising. If the slaves are indeed rebelling, then they won't last long against the Great Masters."

"So we're marching into a slaughter, then?"

"We won't know unless we get a closer look, lad. If we are to do something, then it must be done now. With every minute we waste here, thousands of people will die."

Daenerys stood firm. "That will not happen," she declared before turning to face her forces.

"Rȳ bisa hill stands gō ao Meereen, skoriot thousands bē thousands hen slaves issi fighting syt pōja freedom. Yn lī qilōni emagon wronged ao nykeēdrosa ōregon pōja collars. Pōja prūmi issi hae zōbrie hae se hells hen istin pōnta māzigon. Pōnta laodigon se ossēnagon riñar mijegon mercy, cause daorun yn ōdres se munnon. Dōrī forget se horrors pōnta inflicted bē ao rȳ Astapor, rȳ Yunkai! Istin ao istan slaves qilōni istan ivestretan skoros naejot gaomagon, yn ry hen ao issi dāez naejot mazverdagon aōha decisions. Ivestragī īlva remind aōha evildoers se pirta decision hen raising nykeā qilōny va lī qilōni daor mīsagon pōntāla! (Beyond this hill stands before you Meereen, where thousands upon thousands of slaves are fighting for their freedom. But those who have wronged you still hold their collars. Their hearts are as black as the hells from once they came. They steal and murder children without mercy, cause nothing but pain and sorrow. Remember the horrors they inflicted upon you at Astapor, at Yunkai! Once you were slaves who were told what to do, but all of you are free to make your own choices. Let us remind your enemies what happens when they dare raise a whip on those who cannot defend themselves!)"

On que, the Unsullied and Second Sons got into formation and charged into the nearest breach. Upon entering, they saw the streets in chaos; countless innocents screamed as the Great Masters' lackeys indiscriminately slaughtering those who believed to have supported the uprising while others took up arms and fought back.

"Va nyke, ñuha lēkia! (Form up, my brothers!)" Grey Worm hollered in Low Valyrian. "Vīlībagon syt Daenerys Jelmāzmo! (Fight for Daenerys Stormborn!)"

One after another, each Unsullied quickly moved to take on the Great Masters' forces―each of the warrior-eunuchs leapt forward and thrusted with their spears in hand, impaling several of their adversaries without mercy and taking them completely by surprise. Before they could even had a chance of reacting, Grey Worm swung his shield and bashed it into one of the Meereenese slavers' face.

***BAM!***

The force of the impact had caved in his face and fell to the ground hard.

"Se dovaogēdy! (The Unsullied!)" one of the Ghiscari slave soldiers shouted. "Ossēnagon zirȳ! Ossēnagon zirȳ ry! (Kill them! Kill them all!)"

Responding to the seemingly invasion of an unfamiliar force, the slavers redirected their attention towards the Unsullied and Second Sons mercenaries. Blades clashed, shouts and curses were thrown, and bodies soon piled on the streets. Grey Worm and Daario Naharis were putting up a good fight, taking down their enemies left and right.

"Morghūljagon! (Die!)"

Before Grey Worm could even have a chance to react, the Ghiscari who tried to strike the eunuch – however, his movements immediately ceased when a sword pierced through his neck.

**"BLERGH!"**

Grey Worm turned to see Jon Connington pulling his blade out and bashing the Ghiscari with his bare fists as he went down.

"Keep your sense sharp, and don't let your guard down for even a minute, boy!" Jon hollered.

Grey Worm's facial expression didn't appear to change. "This is your idea of motivating me?" he tried to speak in Common Tongue.

"You decide."

When they finally regathered themselves, the trio had begun to push forward into Meereen. Slavers and rebels continued either fighting or fleeing. Once Grey Worm, Jon and Daario finished off an enemy squad, one of the female rebels noticed them and rose what appears to be a small kitchen knife at them.

"Qilōni issi ao? (Who are you?)" she asked in Low Valyrian. "Issi ao rūsīr se buzdari āeksia? (Are you with the slave masters?)"

Grey Worm shook his head. "īlon vīlībagon syt se zaldrīzes dāria. īlon vīlībagon syt dāerves. (We fight for the Dragon Queen. We fight for freedom)," he replied.

"You got a name pretty thing?" Daario flirted.

She glared at Daario. Her stance didn't waver, showing neither hostility nor submission towards those she had never met. "Zhalimda Hahzuz," she tried to answer in the Common Tongue. "That's all you'll get from me."

Jon stepped forth; his height appeared to tower over Zhalimda in an intimidating fashion. "Lord Jon Connington of Westeros, chief advisor to Queen Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen," he introduced himself. "These… companions with me are Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied; and Daario Naharis, commander of the Second Sons."

Zhalimda glanced at all three of them, studying them closely. "You here to fight?" she asked.

Before one of them could answer, arrows began raining down – hitting several rebels and a few Unsullied as others dived for cover. Zhalimda hid behind one of the nearest alleyways with Jon, Grey Worm and Daario in tow.

"Konīr's se buzdari! (There's the slave!)" one of the Ghiscari slavers shouted. "Ossēnagon zȳhon se se tolie hae sȳrī! (Kill her and the others as well)!"

Zhalimda snarled. Once the arrows stopped descending, she stepped out of cover as she turned to her temporary partners. "That's it! You either fight or run!" she barked at them. Zhalimda turned to her fellow rebel slaves and shouted orders. "ȳdra daor ivestragī bē, valonqar se hāedar. Indigon se buzdari āeksia arlī! Vīlībagon syt aōha dāerves! (Don't let up, brothers and sisters! Push the slave masters back! Fight for your freedom!)"

Unarmored and grabbing whatever they could use as weapons, the rebel slaves mustered their courage once more and ran towards their foes. Jon looked on before gazing at Grey Worm and Daario.

"The masters have more men and weapons," Grey Worm tactically analyzed the situation. "Without our help, the slaves of Meereen will be butchered like animals. We'll need to cut off access to their weapons storage and stop the enemy from getting more aid."

Jon nodded. "Well put, boy. Daario, you know your way around the streets. Best get to it."

"Well, I was the last to join the Dragon Queen's army, Westerosi. I'm not a general like you or a member of her Queensguard or commander of the Unsullied," he said. "My mother was a whore. I come from nothing. I will return to nothing. So if I have to fight, I'll fight. It's something I've done my whole life."

"Just do it!"

Daario rolled his eyes humorously and separated from the main group, whilst Jon and Grey Worm marched forward with the remaining Unsullied and Second Sons to assist the rebels in their desperate bid against the Great Masters of Meereen. Daario ran from alleyway to alleyway, sneaking past the Ghiscari soldiers and gathered whatever weapons and armor as he possibly could. With luck on his side, the Second Sons commander managed to find whatever slaves who were still chained up and unshackled them.

"Kesīr, dīnagon these va. (Here, put these on)," he told them as he passed around weapons and armor. "Find tolie raqagon yourselves se pryjagon pōja belma. Gō se tubis iksos gaomagon, īlva dāria jāhor mazverdagon sure ao ry glaesagon dāez. (Find others like yourselves and break their chains. Before the day is done, our Queen will make sure you all live free.)"

They didn't need to be told twice and did exactly as they were told. Once that was done, Daario returned outside to see a Ghiscari knight charging into view, cutting down multiple rebels at once with ease.

"Konīr ao issi! Nyke Oznak zo Phal, kosh hen Meereen! Byjan vavi demble eva o, trezy eme verdje espo jimi! (There you are! I am Oznak zo Phal, champion of Meereen! I fart in your general direction, son of a window-dresser!)" he shouted.

Daario rolled his eyes and chuckled in amusement as Oznak zo Phal continued cursing him.

"Oa mysa iles me nýnyghi, si oa kiba tuziles espo tomistos! Já si hojgá oa gundja, trezy eme mero dovodedha! Kiman nya másina orvorta va oi sodjistos! Do eban av kimívagho dombo, o doru-borto pame espo gruzi evi havor espo begistos! Ghorgan ji pungo va os, nynta Dare espo Zaldrizes, zȳhon se ry zȳhon dovodedha Vesterozia azzzzzantys! (Your mother was a hamster, and your father smelt of elderberries! Go and boil your bottom, son of a silly person! I wave my private parts at your aunties! I don't want to talk to you no more you empty-headed animal food trough wiper! I blow my nose at your, so-called "Dragon Queen", her and all her silly Westerosi kaniggets!)"

With that, Oznak zo Pahl charged at Daario with sword in hand. The Second Sons commander had merely stifled a laugh as he unsheathed a small dagger from his side, giving it a small peck before throwing it at Oznak's horse's face. The animal neighed as it fell to the ground and threw the Champion of Meereen off his mount. Before Oznak could recover, Daario quickly revealed a Dothraki sword and slashed him across the face, killing him with ease. Several onlookers watched in amazement as Daario looked at his seemingly would-be admirers.

"All too easy," he chuckled. "Now to find the others."

* * *

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

It's been almost two years since Robb Stark had taken most of his forces south to help King Daveth Baratheon repel an incursion at Blackwater Bay. When a raven arrived announcing the death of his father Eddard Stark, the young Bran and his brother Rickon had sobbed for days. And since Robb was away in Riverrun to prepare to return to King's Landing for the royal wedding, the responsibility of governing Winterfell and the North fell to Bran. But for the past several days, Bran had been growing restless.

  
  


"Another sleepless night, my lord?" Maester Luwin inquired.

Bran looked at the old man. "I… don't know. I've been having more and more of these dreams lately."

"Dreams of what?"

"I'm standing the courtyard practicing my archery," the little lord explained. "Then… I'm walking and running, but… I'm not… I'm not me. I'm running through the godswood, sniffing the dirt, tasting blood in my mouth when I've made a fresh kill, howling. Old Nan used to tell me stories about magical people who could live inside stags, birds, wolves."

Maester Luwin shook his head. "That's exactly what they are, Bran, stories."

"No, my dreams are different," Bran continued. "Whatever occurred next confused me. A crow, raven, or whatever it was, stood on a perch and looked directly at me. It had three eyes! It told me to come with him, so I did."

"Well, whatever it was, my lord, dreams come and go. This one is no different. The magic you speak of has been absent from the world for centuries—" Maester Luwin continued before there was a knock on the door.

***KNOCK, KNOCK!***

"Who is it?" Bran calls out.

A Winterfell guard steps in. "Apologies for disturbing you, my lord. But there's a visitor requesting to see you. Says it's important."

"Are they still here?"

"Yes, my lord. They're out in the courtyard."

Bran nodded. "Fine, I'll see to them. Hodor!"

The enormous, simpleminded servant lumbered into the room.

"Hodor?" Hodor said simply.

"I need you to carry me into the courtyard."

"Hodor."

Hodor leaned down and picked Bran up in his arms, carrying him outside with his direwolf Summer and Osha in tow. Once in the courtyard, the little lord could see two people standing in the middle of Winterfell, a male and female. The woman appeared to be much taller than her companion, short and slim with long brown hair and green eyes and had a rather cheerful disposition. The male, however, was much shorter and slim with green eyes and had a sullen attitude.

"There you are," he announced.

"And you are…?"

"You've been having dreams."

Bran looked confused. "How did you know about my dreams?" he asked.

The male stepped forward, but Osha quickly ran and stood in front of him with a blade drawn. "Not another step, boy," the wildling warned. "Unless you want to drown in your own blood."

He ignored her. "I'm unarmed. My sister carries the weapons, though."

The female nodded. "And I assure you, I'm very good with them. Especially with the spear."

Bran narrowed his eyes as Summer began to growl. "You do that, my direwolf will tear you to bits."

Whatever threats were issued, the male stood firm.

"And I suppose you believe it's the dreams you've been having that's been controlling Summer, yes?"

Bran studied him closely and said nothing.

"Hodor?" Hodor whined.

"Settle down, Hodor," Bran patted his companion before redirecting his attention at the two strangers standing before him. "And you two, you never told me your names. You stand in Winterfell, ancestral seat of House Stark. As acting lord of this castle, I request that you tell me who you are."

The male nodded in acknowledgement. "I'm Jojen Reed," he introduced himself. "This is my sister, Meera."

Bran blinked as the name "Reed" made its way into his ears. House Reed of Greywater Watch was the southern-most of the North that swore allegiance to Starks. A distinct off-shoot of the First Men, the Reeds along with their vassals are Crannogmen who control the vast area of swampland and bog stretching across the Neck. Their father, Lord Howland Reed, was an old friend of Bran's father Eddard Stark and one of only two to survive the encounter with Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of the Morning. With introductions set, Jojen stepped forward again – ignoring the threat posed by Osha.

"Why are you here?" Osha demanded.

Jojen ignored Osha and kept his focus on Bran. "We've come a long way to find you, Brandon. And we have come to help you go much farther than what you already are."

Bran blinked. "I don't… understand."

"Not yet, no. But you must seek him out."

"Who?" he asks.

"The Three-Eyed Raven."


	36. Confession

* * *

**Near the gates of King's Landing…**

* * *

Sansa Stark rode to the capital along the Kingsroad from Riverrun with her handmaiden Shae. Although she was saddened by the passing of her grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully, Sansa reminded herself of her sworn duties as a highborn lady. The royal wedding was around the corner, preparations were being made and word soon arrived that the invited guests were beginning to arrive. As such, Sansa's presence was required. For the occasion, Sansa was dressed in a formal gown completely lined with drop ball sleeves. Gilded and intricate wings resembling maple tree samara seeds fasten her bodices as claps; her carved, golden lion necklace Daveth gave her two years ago was still worn around her neck. The fabric in her woven pattern, combined with the dress's winged sleeves gave her attire the air of a dragonfly itself.

 

"Do you think people will like it?" Sansa asks.

Shae turns to her mistress, smiling at seeing Sansa's girlish optimism shining as the young woman couldn't hide her excitement. She was getting married to the King, yes, but even so there was a strong bond the Lorathi woman could tell was there. It was something Shae shared with her beloved Tyrion Lannister despite being a lowborn whore now raised to a handmaiden in service of a noblewoman of higher status, especially since Sansa's from one of the more ancient families in Westeros.

"I think they will even notice more than that, my lady," Shae answers. "They know how much their King adores his lady. From what I can tell, the Oathkeeper paid a fortune to ensure the finest silks were made for your wedding."

Sansa smiled and blushed. " _Our_  wedding," she corrected her. "Daveth likes black fabric with crimson leather sleeves and little gold trims."

"He has a very rich grandfather."

"I'm well aware of how wealthy House Lannister is. And I'm… aware of how nasty they can be."

"Yet you've been very careful around  _most_  of them. I heard the soon-to-be Dowager Queen is still livid."

"And I still don't understand what I could possibly have done to upset her," Sansa shook her head in bewilderment. "I did what was expected of me, yet somehow it was never enough."

"But Daveth did warn you about her."

"He did." The atmosphere between them had changed uncomfortably when the topic of Cersei Lannister popped up. A long silence lingered for a while as Sansa and Shae walked through the Gate of the Gods. "And yet, I've learned a lot. I am a bit of a slow learner, it's true, but I've learned nonetheless."

"Then you know what you need to do to survive in this city."

The two soon rode to the nearest checkpoint, where a couple City Watchmen were waiting for them… led by one man in particular.

"Welcome back to King's Landing, Lady Sansa," Petyr greeted her. "We all mourn the loss of your grandfather, Lord Hoster Tully."

Sansa looked at Petyr, eyeing him up and down as she dismounted. "Lord Baelish—" she tried to speak.

"Petyr," Petyr interrupted.

Sansa felt uncomfortable. "Petyr," she finally said. "House Stark and House Tully appreciate your kind words. Though I do not know exactly  _how_  you learned of my grandfather's passing."

"My father was a longtime friend of his during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. It was how I came to be fostered at Riverrun in the first place, remember?"

"As a matter of fact, I do, Lord Bae— I mean, Petyr."

Shae instinctively felt the urge to stand between the strange man and her mistress, but the look in the young Stark maiden's eyes simply told her to be patient. Sansa then took a moment to look around and noticed the sigil of House Arryn and knights of the Vale gathering in the courtyard.

"The knights of the Vale?" Sansa recognizes them. "They are here?"

Petyr nodded. "Of course, Sansa. They've attended with your aunt Lady Lysa and her son Robin from the Eyrie to attend the wedding."

She hinted that there was more to it than that. "There is more, isn't there?"

"You sure have blossomed into a clever wolf, haven't you, Sansa?" Petyr chuckled. "Alright, I confess. I married your aunt Lysa shortly after the Battle of Blackwater Bay. She came here at my behest to swear fealty to the King. And before you say anything, no, chaos is not a pit. Chaos is a ladder, Sansa. The Blackwater Bay incident was rather chaotic. Many try to climb it, but they fall and never get to try again. It breaks them. And some are given a chance to climb. They refuse, they cling to the realm or the gods or love. Illusions. Only the ladder is real. The climb is all there is."

"How did—?"

"The King himself arranged it."

Now Sansa was indeed surprised. "So that makes you my uncle by marriage," she concluded.

"Correct. We're family now. Please, let me show you to your chambers. You have had a long and trying few weeks, I know. You must be weary."

Before Sansa could open her mouth to reply, another figure stepped from the shadows.

"There you are, Lady Sansa," the voice announced.

  

Sansa and Petyr looked and saw Ariyana Dayne stepping forward, dressing in formal violet Dornish attire – but still donning a small portion of her dress bearing the sigil of House Dayne. Her long black hair was smooth as silk; her violet eyes pierced those around her and kept her family sword Dawn at her hip.

"Lady Ariyana."

"Thank you for welcoming her ladyship, Lord Baelish. I will take over from here. Catelyn Stark's orders."

Petyr's smile was almost as if it was a sneer. "Of course," he said calmly. "How rude of me; I should not keep my niece waiting when such an important day lies before her."

"I'm sure your wife seeks your… comfort," Ariyana replied.

Sansa looked back and forth between Petyr and Ariyana as Littlefinger turned to see to the Vale knights. Using this moment, Ariyana steps towards Sansa and Shae.

"He's been like this ever since he was named Lord of Harrenhal. Now that he's Lord Protector of the Vale…" she groaned in irritation. "I don't know what King Daveth was thinking."

"I'm sure he must have his reasons," Sansa suggests.

"Perhaps; most of us are not entirely sure what goes through his head. But that is a conversation for another time."

"For now, we must get you ready," Shae chimed in. "The wedding is only in a few days. We must make you look beautiful for your soon-to-be husband, no?"

Sansa smiled lightly. "Husband…" she hummed quietly to herself. "My husband…"

The two made their way into the Red Keep, making the arrangements for the wedding. Unbeknownst to them, an unknown female had been observing them rather closely.

* * *

**At the White Sword Tower…**

* * *

    
 

"All the Kingsguard will be on duty," Ser Barristan begun, observing the map of the Red Keep's royal gardens closely. "Ser Boros will be stationed here. Ser Meryn will guard Lady Margaery and Prince Tommen."

Ser Lucius chimed in. "I will guard the King and Lady Sansa. Ser Jaime will not be far with our guest, Lady Ariyana Dayne, beside the primary entertainment."

Sers Meryn and Jaime rolled their eyes.

"Always stuck with the gallery," Jaime sighed.

"Need I remind you that you disobeyed a direct order and deviated from the plan during Renly's rebellion, Ser Jaime?" Lucius notices.

Jaime frowned as King Daveth entered the room.

"Your Grace," Ser Barristan greeted.

"Your Grace," said the other Kingsguard knights.

"How have preparations been, Lord Commander?"

"We've made the appropriate seating arrangements for our guests as well as ramping up matters of security. It's as your Master of Coin stated. The royal wedding is to be one of the biggest events in living memory."

"Without a doubt, I'm sure it will be," Daveth said as he looked down at the map.

Ser Meryn felt restless. "Still not sure about having the Tyrells waddling about, Your Grace. They did betray you when they sided with Renly."

"I'm well aware of that fact, Ser Meryn. And they're paying the price for it. Mace Tyrell has already supplied the bulk of food, entertainment and money from Highgarden to ensure the costs are paid for by  _my_  leave. And I will not hear another word about it."

The Trant Kingsguard merely grumbled.

"What about the others?" Daveth inquired.

"The remaining Kingsguard have been stationed at their post," Jaime answered his nephew. "Although there still remains an empty spot since the, uh… 'unfortunate' treachery committed by Ser Mandon Moore."

"Attempting to slay one of my advisors, one of my own  _uncles_ , in broad daylight during the Battle of the Blackwater, in front of  _me_ , was a foolish mistake he's made on his part. I'll find a suitable candidate to fill the vacancy once the wedding is over."

Barristan looked at his former squire. "How long has it been since you've slept, Your Grace?"

"I know where you're going with this, Ser Barristan. But to answer your question, I've been getting more time since my Lord Hand suggested I take a moment's reprieve as of late."

Jaime looked at Daveth. "So that tells me you've been sleeping more?"

"I've been sleeping more, uncle, yes." When Daveth moved his hand to move another puzzle piece onto the map, his hand knocked against the cover of the  _Book of Brothers_. "This is…"

"The  _Book of Brothers_ , Your Grace," Lucius mentioned, taking a moment to walk over to Daveth and turn the pages. "This records the deeds of every knight who served in the Kingsguard throughout our order's three hundred year history."

"And it's the duty of the Lord Commander to fill in those pages," Barristan mentioned.

Daveth looked up. "I take it you've had to fill in your fair share these last twenty years, Barristan?"

The old knight chuckled. "A couple times, Your Grace. But yes. Look here," he points to one of the noticeable pages.

"'Ser Arthur Dayne,'" Daveth reads. "'Second son of Lord Beric Dayne of Starfall. Named Sword of the Morning and wielder of the great white blade Dawn forged from a fallen star. Won many tourneys and broke twelve lances against Rhaegar Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone at the Tourney of Storm's End. In the year of the False Spring, at the Great Tourney at Harrenhal, he stood against all but the Prince once more.'" He stopped to look at Barristan and Jaime. "Did he also play an instrumental role in defeating the Smiling Knight in single-combat and defeat the Kingswood Brotherhood?"

"That he did," Jaime answered. "Ser Barristan and I were there many years ago. Even without our aid, we both knew what he was capable of. Best swordsman in the history of the Seven Kingdoms."

Daveth felt his curiosity peak as he looked at the tome once more. "'Ser Lucius Blackmyre,'" he continued. "'Sole survivor of House Blackmyre near the Dornish Marches. Nicknamed the Bull by Ser Gerald Hightower for his ferocity and mind for strategy during the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Won many battles near the southern border before being elevated to the Kingsguard by King Aerys the Second. Pardoned by King Robert Baratheon after the rebellion. Assigned as sworn shield to his son and heir Daveth Baratheon.'"

Lucius felt a small grin creep up on his wrinkled face, as some rather old memories of his past life came back to him.

"'Ser Barristan Selmy. Known by his honor and chivalrous reputation that is second to none. Nicknamed Barristan the Bold after a joust with Prince Duncan Targaryen at ten years of age. Widely considered by many to be one of the best swordsmen in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms, he was elevated to the Kingsguard by King Aegon the Fifth as a reward for his valor in battle during the War of the Ninepenny Kings where he slew Maelys the Monstrous of House Blackfyre in single-combat on the Stepstones. Pardoned by King Robert Baratheon after the rebellion. Promoted to Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.'" Daveth looked at Barristan. "And one of the finest mentors I've ever had," he complimented.

Barristan smiled. "And one of the best squires I've ever trained."

The Young Stag felt himself swell with pride at hearing Barristan's praise. The two were rather close, ever since King Daveth was a child. "Hmmm," he hummed as he flipped more pages. "Four pages for Ser Duncan the Tall, I see."

"So they say," Jaime thought aloud.

Flipping more pages, Daveth observed another. "'Ser Jaime Lannister…'"

Jaime lifted his head as he noticed the expression on Daveth's face change into one of seemingly disbelief as the Young Stag traced his index finger and stopped at half of the first page.

""Squired for Barristan Selmy against the Kingswood Brotherhood. Knighted and named to the Kingsguard in his sixteenth year for valor in the field. At the Sack of King's Landing, murdered his king, Aerys the Second, at the foot of the Iron Throne. Pardoned by King Robert Baratheon. Thereafter known as the Kingslayer.'" Daveth looked up and stared at his uncle. "And why is it that this page is so short?" he asked. "Where are your great deeds?"

Jaime raised his hand. "It's all right, nephew. It's all right. There's still time. No need to rush things. And there's still room left on mine," he said trying to reassure him.

Daveth shook his head. "If you insist," he sighed.

A brief pause filled the room, before Daveth closed the book and left the White Sword Tower to see to his guests. As the other Kingsguard followed suit, only Jaime and Barristan remained for a moment.

"He still doesn't know why I did what I did," Jaime said.

Barristan noticed. "Be that as it may, Ser Jaime, it was the most dishonorable thing a knight of the Kingsguard has ever committed. Even if serving a madman meant it would cost us our soul, you can't expect to break a sacred oath and not be surprised when the people despise you for it."

Jaime felt his irritation starting to boil. "You think I don't know that? Everywhere I look, I see how the people have been looking at me these past 19 years straight," he sharply inhaled through his nostrils. "'Kingslayer', 'Oathbreaker', 'A man without honor'. Nobody cared to listen to my side of the story."

" _Your_  side of the story?"

"Does it matter?" he sighed exasperatingly. "Of course it doesn't. I was the only Kingsguard left in the capital while the rest of you were fighting at the Battle of the Trident. You didn't see what the Mad King did when you weren't around."

Barristan decided to stop scolding, and simply stood in front of Jaime with his arms crossed. "Then tell me," the Lord Commander requested.

Jaime felt uncomfortable. He hadn't felt ready to talk about what he did in the past. But so long as people kept calling him "Kingslayer", Jaime felt he might as well get it over with. "You remember seeing wildfire?"

"Of course," Barristan nodded. "The Mad King used it as a means of execution. Burned men alive, killed sons in front of their fathers and any he believed conspired against him."

Jaime nodded and continued. "But what you didn't know was that he also had his pyromancers place caches of wildfire all over the city. Beneath the Sept of Baelor, beneath the slums of Flea Bottom, houses, stables, and taverns. He even had his pyromancers place them beneath the Red Keep itself. And then finally the day of reckoning came."

Barristan felt his nerves twitch and his stomach twist in knots as more and more of Jaime's confessions spilled out.

"Robert Baratheon, my own nephew's father… and my late brother-in-law, marched on the capital after his victory against Prince Rhaegar at the Trident," he continued. "But my father got there first with 10,000 Lannister soldiers at his side, promising to defend King's Landing against the rebels. But I know my father better than anyone alive. He's never been the kind to support the losing side. I urged the Mad King to surrender peacefully, but he didn't listen to me. He didn't listen to Varys, who also tried to warn him." Jaime felt his muscles tense. "But he did listen to Grand Maester Pycelle, that grey, sunken cunt," he cursed. "'You can trust the Lannisters,' he said. 'The Lannisters have always been true friends of the crown.' So Aerys opened the gates and my father sacked the city. Again I begged King Aerys to surrender. I begged him to stop this violence from escalating any further. And he told me to…" Jaime paused and took a moment to compose himself before resuming. "He told me to bring him my father's head to prove I wasn't a traitor. Then he turned to his pyromancers."

"And then what?"

"'Burn them all', is what he said. 'Burn them in their homes. Burn them in their beds.'"

The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard felt sick to his stomach. He knew King Aerys II Targaryen was an insane, cruel tyrant, but never did in his 40 years of combat experience did Barristan even think that Aerys would have stooped that far as to burn King's Landing to the ground with all of its inhabitants.

"Tell me, Barristan," Jaime narrowed his eyes, "if someone commanded you to kill your own father and stand by while thousands of innocent men, women and children burned alive, would you have done it? Would you have kept your oath then?"

For what seemed to be the first time in his life, Barristan honestly had no way of answering that what-if question and was stunned into silence. But still Jaime didn't stop there.

"First I killed the pyromancer. And then when Aerys turned to flee, I shoved my sword deep into his back," Jaime finally confessed. "'Burn them all,' he kept saying. 'Burn them all.' I didn't think he expected to die. Like his stupid, delusional uncle Aerion Brightflame, Aerys believed he wouldn't die as the city burned. No, I think he assumed he would burn with the rest of us and rise again, be reborn as a dragon and turn his enemies to ash." He shook his head and hissed. "I slit his throat to make sure that didn't happen. That's where Ned Stark found me. I saved half a million lives, and this is the thanks I get in return? They spit on me and judge me guilty? By what  _right_  do they have to  _judge_  a lion?!"

Barristan stood in front of him, eyes wide in shock and horror. "Does your nephew know about this?"

Jaime's facial expression changed from years of pent up anger and frustration into one that showed a hint of sadness, hesitation and remorse. "No," he shook his head. "He never asked me about it. Not once."

"Don't you think he has the right to know?"

"At some point; but now… Now's not the appropriate time. Once things have settled down a bit… I'll tell him."

"You'd better," Barristan said once he finally recomposed himself. "Now, go get some rest, Ser Jaime. That's an order."

Jaime suddenly felt dizzy and nodded, making his way past Barristan. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard remained behind and looked back at the  _Book of Brothers_. He slowly re-opened the tome and turned to Ser Jaime Lannister's page. Barristan looked at the page closely and shook his head shamefully.

"Gods preserve me, Ser Jaime," Barristan sighed wearily. "I thought I trained you to be better than that. No, maybe that fault lies with me."

Barristan picked up a nearby ink and quill, holding it between his fingers as he pressed the tip of the quill on the page. And once he gathered his thoughts, Barristan began making small steady strokes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Preparations for the wedding are underway and Jaime confesses his deepest, darkest secret. But to someone other than Brienne of Tarth. How do you think this will affect his relationship with Barristan the Bold? Or even his nephew the King? Next chapter should be a bit more interesting as I'll introduce a new, but familiar face. Care to guess who it'll be? But other than that… Thoughts? Let me know.


	37. The Red Viper of Dorne

* * *

**In the Red Keep…**

* * *

  
  

Daveth Baratheon had been sitting down in his room preparing for the wedding, dressed in the finest silks. His clothes were of black and gold, had crimson red sleeves with a crimson cape and his stag crown stood next to him. But in front of him stood Lord Yohn Royce, Lady Anya Waynwood and Ser Vance Corbray who arrived at Daveth's invitation.

"Thank you for coming to King's Landing as soon as you were able, my lords," Daveth said before turning to Anya. "My lady. The royal wedding begins in two days, but I'm sure you have certain reasons for coming. Lord Varys has informed me that each of you have requested an audience of utmost importance with me. Well… here we are. Tell me. What has been troubling you all?"

Lord Royce was the first to speak up. "We apologize for not coming to your aid during the rebellion sooner, but that's not why we are here. No. Our business concerns lie with the arrangement you made with Lady Arryn, especially with that snake Baelish."

"And what it is about him that bothers you, Lord Royce?"

"I didn't need to hear about him. Moneylender, whoremonger. No offense meant, Your Grace, but Baelish's been licking your lord grandfather's boots so long, it's a wonder his tongue's not black."

'Deciding not to beat around the bush already, I see. He is rather direct, that Bronze Yohn, I'll give him that,' thought Daveth as he kept silent.

"And when our late Lord Jon Arryn decided to name him Master of Coin, no one cared. Always been a grubby job. Why not let a grubby man do it? But when I heard that you arranged a betrothal between Baelish and the Lady Arryn…"

"We all know that it was neither secret nor a coincidence that Lord Baelish and Lady Arryn had a past history given their childhood at Riverrun, my lord. We all know how… 'close'… they were. I've seen quite a bit of that back when I was a boy so there's no need to remind me of such an odd fish."

Silence filled the room.

"You mean you didn't know?" Daveth raised an eyebrow. "Of course you didn't. Lysa never loved Jon Arryn, but did her duty as a Tully regardless… at least for 17 years, given her sanity. Then she was free to do as she pleased now that she's now married to Lord Baelish."

"No need to remind us of that," Yohn said somewhat rather disgusted. "You should have seen how she raised her boy. Feeding him from her own teats when he was 10 years old in front of us…"

"Lord Royce! Lady Arryn's predilections were her own affair," Anya chimed in. "The concern and well-being of the Vale is our affair as well."

"Of course."

"It is correct that everyone knows she is an odd fish, but it does strike us as… odd, that she be wedded to Lord Baelish so soon after keeping all of us back in the Vale isolated for so long. I don't see her doing something so reckless, not by choice, unless Lady Arryn was promised something in return."

"The Vale might have returned to the fold when Lady Arryn and her son Robin bent the knee, but that we are not yet still the Seven Kingdoms," the Young Stag replied. "Each of us had to make sacrifices of our own, Lady Waynwood, but I was getting rather increasingly irritated with Lady Arryn's stubborn persistence of not answering my summons until recently. Strange that after her wedding to Lord Baelish she suddenly decided to comply."

"And so you used her to achieve your own ends," Yohn said almost accusingly.

Daveth swore he felt a nerve twitch. "I had my reasons. And you'd do well to watch that tone of yours when you're in my home, Lord Royce."

The Lord of Runestone tried not to scowl, if not for Ser Corbray's intervention. "I believe what he meant to say, Your Grace, was that we would have understood if the Vale was informed ahead of time," Vance tried to explain.

The Young Stag seemingly took notice. "True, but I could not take an unnecessary risk of someone intercepting whatever message was sent to the Eyrie. It would have been for the best if you heard about it from me instead of another."

Yohn appeared to have settled down a bit upon hearing Daveth's explanation. "We're here now, as instructed. But that doesn't seem to address our concerns about Lord Baelish."

"You don't trust him," Daveth suggested. He didn't need to wait for any of the Vale lords to respond to get an answer. "Neither do I."

Yohn, Anya and Vance trade brief glances of confusion with each other. It was so simple to press the issue now.

"In fact," he continued. "I believe he's up to something. But all I have so far right now are theories, not proof."

"What kind of theories?" asked Yohn.

Daveth took a moment to compose himself; but before opening his mouth to speak, the door to the room opened up – revealing Lady Lysa Arryn's handmaiden Eleana Fyste.

"Apologies for interrupting, my lords," she curtsied. "Your Grace."

"We're in the middle of an important discussion, lass," Yohn scolded her. "What business do you have to interrupt us?"

Eleana took a moment to gather her wits. "I'm sorry, Lord Royce, but I've learned Lady Arryn saying something terrible."

"And what would that be?" Vance demanded.

Eleana stepped forward and began whispering into Daveth's ear. The Young Stag leaned in to listen closely as more and more words poured in. Yohn, Anya and Vance were anxious and wondered what was so important that Lady Arryn's handmaiden chose to inform the King and not them. What was she telling him?

Daveth's eyes narrowed and lowered his brows suspiciously. "And you are certain about this?" he whispered silently.

"I swear by the Old Gods and the new," Eleana whispered affirmingly.

"Were you followed or eavesdropped upon?"

"I don't think so, no."

The Young Stag exhaled and pulled Eleana aside. "If what you're telling me is true, then go find Varys. Tell the Master of Whisperers everything you just told me. Make sure no one was listening, and make sure you are not being followed."

Eleana nodded and curtsied once again before leaving the room. It didn't take long for Daveth to turn his gaze to the Vale lords again.

"Well?" Yohn demanded. "What did she say that was so important that she couldn't tell us?"

Daveth took a seat and leaned in closer. "Listen, my lords. My lady," he said in a serious tone. "What I'm about to tell you, you must swear that you will keep this to yourselves and tell  _no one_ , not even Lady Arryn or Lord Baelish, about what you're about to hear."

"Of course, Your Grace," Vance swore.

The Vale lords leaned in closely, wanting to hear more of what the King was about to tell them.

"The real reason I've called you all here is that I suspect that Littlefinger is conspiring against the realm. Not only that, but thanks to a certain handmaiden, I have more reason to believe that both he and Lysa were involved in Jon Arryn's murder."

* * *

**Outside of King's Landing…**

* * *

Master of Coin Lord Tyrion Lannister stood beside Bronn and his squire Podrick Payne, greeting the attending dignitaries who arrived at the capital to attend the royal wedding between King Daveth I Baratheon and Lady Sansa Stark. The Imp had been questioning what could have motivated his own nephew to appoint him to the position of Master of Coin.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _"We've been over this discussion dozens of times already, Uncle Tyrion, and again the matter is closed," Daveth once spoke to him. "Why were you expecting me to reconsider?"_
> 
> _Tyrion shook his head. "Master of Coin? Really?"_
> 
> _"You really think I meant to name you to a position on my council simply as a means to punish you?"_
> 
> _"Did you, nephew?"_
> 
> _Silence filled the room temporarily. Finally, Daveth quietly exhaled. "Look, I didn't decide to pick you to serve as Master of Coin on a whim merely to spite you. I don't care if you're even a dwarf. I only care about what it is you have to offer. I chose you because I know you possess a great deal of raw talent, even if mother or grandfather won't admit it," he explained. Daveth took a moment to point to Varys, who stood on the opposite side of the room. "Take Lord Varys, for example. Look at how far he's come. A foreign eunuch from the streets of Lys, now risen to the position as Master of Whisperers. He's in a position where he can hone his talents for the good of the realm, not just for the select few. I don't care that Varys originally came from some distant land in the east or that he doesn't have a cock. I only care about what he has to offer."_
> 
> _Varys bowed his head. "You flatter me, Your Grace," he said softly in an appreciative tone._
> 
> _Tyrion sat in his seat and listened as his nephew continued explaining his reasons._
> 
> _"You see, uncle, those who don't have the Seven Kingdoms' best interests at heart are usually at the core of what makes this world a shithole we've always known. Imbeciles with no talent and sycophants obsessed with seizing power for themselves are usually the ones who cause trouble in the first place. Even the slightest tug can ruin the entire tapestry. I don't care if you're a dwarf. I only care about what you have to offer." Daveth set his cup of wine down and redirected his attention to the two men standing before him. "The future of Westeros will be determined by which direction it will go and what comes next in the months and years to come," the Young Stag said simply. "We could establish a dynasty that would last a thousand years. One worth fighting for, one we can be proud of. But I'm just one man, and I can't do this by myself. You all said it yourselves."_
> 
> _Varys looked at Daveth closely. "I see. So in case you are unable to achieve it in this lifetime, you plan on laying the foundation so that future generations could do it for you."_
> 
> _"I will, but I'm not finished yet."_
> 
> **ooOoo**

  

Tyrion had been spacing out for some time that he hadn't noticed Podrick had been nudging him. "My lord?" he asked concerned.

The dwarf shook his head. "Egh, it's nothing. Just had another one of my moments."

"You've been saying that about a lot of things lately," Bronn joked as he bit into an apple. "Heard the Oathkeeper King's been keeping you busy from dawn 'til dusk."

"Comes with the job, I guess. But Daveth is still my nephew even long before he became a King. Sometimes I worry that he forgets: there's a whole bunch of us who lose sleep over him, what happens when he pushes himself too hard."

"Sounds like it's bad for your health if you ask me."

"That sounds like it."

More noble lords and ladies continued to pass them buy. The three of them were waiting on a certain individual: Prince Doran Martell of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear. It's been some time since the Iron Throne received any response from House Martell, but Tyrion was still made aware that his niece Princess Myrcella is in good health and has been in constant contact with King Daveth. Tyrion had extended an invitation to House Martell on his nephew's behalf, but no response came yet.

"How many Dornishmen does it take to fuck a goat? 9. One to do the shoeing, and eight to lift the horse up." Bronn interrupted.

Tyrion shuddered and shifted his posture; he did not think the Prince of Dorne himself would find that amusing if he stood before them now. "Please don't."

"Seems to me the smart place to meet travellers is in a tavern. That way, one party is late, the other party can drink some ale inside."

"Bronn, this is the Prince of Dorne we're waiting for, not one of your sellsword friends."

Bronn mocked being hurt. "If he's so damned important, then how come your stag nephew sent you to meet him instead?"

_'Daveth of course would offer to actually meet the Dornishmen in-person, but it was father who talked him out of it,'_  thought Tyrion. "Because there's bad blood between the Martells of Dorne and the Lannisters of Casterly Rock," he explained. "It's been like that for years. Took a lot for Daveth to actually reach out to them… a risk he's gambling."

Podrick edged a bit closer, carrying the royal standard, Daveth's white crowned gold stag on a black field, and struggling with its weight. The lad had been making a diligent study of Dornish heraldry at Tyrion's command, but as ever he was nervous.

"Ah! Here we are," Tyrion shouted and clapped his hands, getting the City Watchmen's attention.

Bronn and Podrick looked on and saw several Dornishmen beginning to arrive, each of them carrying their own banners. "Wild lemons on a purple field, House Dalt of Lemonwood," called out Podrick. "A vulture grasping a baby in its talons, House Blackmont. A crowned skull, the Manwoodys of Kingsgrave."

Tyrion laughed. "Boy knows his Dornish houses. And House Martell, a red sun pierced by a spear?"

Podrick narrowed his eyes and looked closer. "I don't see it, my lord," he said timidly as the bannermen of Houses Dalt and Blackmont arrived before them.

There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts: the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their swiftness in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Dornishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least. All three sorts seemed well represented in Doran's retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark, with smooth olive skin and long black hair streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker, their faces burned brown by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest, sons of the Andals and the First Men, brown-haired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning.

"Well met, my lords," Tyrion greeted them. "We had word of your approach. His Grace King Daveth welcomes you in his name. My lord father, the King's Hand, sends his greetings as well. I am Tyrion Lannister of Casterly Rock, Master of Coin."

Tyrion looked around, but spotted no one carrying House Martell's sigil. "Forgive me. I don't see Prince Doran in your company."

"The prince's health forces him to remain at Sunspear," one of the Dornishmen spoke. His face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows above large eyes as black and shiny as pools of coal oil. Only a few streaks of silver marred the lustrous black hair that receded from his brow in a widow's peak as sharply pointed as his nose. A salty Dornishman for certain. "He sends his brother, Prince Oberyn, to attend the royal wedding in his stead."

_'This means blood will be in the gutters,'_  he thought to himself. "His Grace will be honored to enjoy the company of a warrior as renowned as Prince Oberyn at his wedding."

"Will he?" the Dornishmen mocked.

_'I'll pretend I didn't hear that. These men obviously don't know Daveth that well,'_  Tyrion thought as he tried not to grind his teeth. "And where is Prince Oberyn?" he asked.

"He arrived before dawn. Our prince is not a man for welcome parties."

"Very well. My lords, these fine men from the City Watch will escort you to your quarters in—"

The Dornishmen said nothing as they rode past Tyrion, Bronn and Podrick—ignoring the dwarf's continued welcoming words.

"Some accomplished diplomacy that was," Bronn said musingly. "Now where to?"

Tyrion shook his shoulders. "We must find Prince Oberyn before he kills somebody, or several somebodies. Daveth'll likely hold me responsible if something actually does happen while all this is going on."

"And how do you plan on finding a single Dornishman in a city this big?"

"You're famous for fucking half of Westeros. You just arrived at the capital after two weeks of at  _least_  modest road with areas being improved upon. Where would you go?"

"I'd probably go to sleep, but I'm getting old."

* * *

**At the Great Hall of Pyke…**

* * *

Theon had been arguing with his older sister Yara for quite some time. In the moment of their reunion, all the young Greyjoy had returned to was not a homecoming—but one of ridicule and mockery. And one of embarrassment mixed with some humiliation. He had no idea the woman he had been riding with on the way back to Pyke was his own sister, and the ironborn had laughed at him all the same. Theon hadn't gotten the homecoming he thought he'd get. Compared to how he was treated at Pyke and Winterfell, Theon felt he had gotten a better upbringing with House Stark despite being their ward/hostage.

  

"It's not my fault you didn't recognize me," Yara spoke calmly.

Theon was still red. "Recognize you? How could I? The last time I saw you… You looked like a fat little boy."

"You looked like, too," she countered, "but at least  _I_  recognized you."

The doors sprung open and both Greyjoy siblings turned to look, expecting their father—but it was someone else. The person approaching them was a large, muscular and ferocious-looking man with long dark hair that has started to turn grey. Donning boiled black leather, he also wore heavy grey chainmail and lobstered plate and carried a helm in the shape of a kraken under his arm whilst carrying a large two-handed battle axe in the other.

 

Yara was the first to recognize him. "Uncle," she greeted.

Theon looked puzzled. "Uncle?"

Their uncle, Victarion Greyjoy, looked down at Theon and ignored his nephew's confusion. "Your father will be here momentarily," he simply said. "Best make yourselves look more presentable and ready when he does."

Victarion's tone of voice was that of bitter steel, despite portraying a calm demeanor on the outside. Proud, combative and dangerous, Victarion was a large, brutal man who commands the newly-rebuilt Iron Fleet as its Lord Captain with his niece Yara as second-in-command. Both Theon and Yara could tell that their uncle was itching for a fight as Victarion's posture was rather tensing up with anticipation. Theon had already made his case to Balon that attacking now was suicide, but the Lord Reaper of Pyke would not listen. On que, Balon entered the room with his ironborn guardsmen.

"The plans are made. It's time you heard them," he announced.

"Brother," Victarion saluted as customary in the Old Way.

"Father," both Theon and Yara salute the same.

Balon approached the war table and laid out a map of Westeros. Victarion stood at his brother's side to examine the map's detailed geography, with Theon and Yara close by. "The wolf pup has gone south with a sizeable portion of his Northern vassals," he begun. "While he's busy palling around with his stag king friend, the North is ripe for the taking."

Yara quickly caught up. "As it was in the old days, the ironborn will reave and pillage; all along the northern coast."

"Correct. From there, we'll spread our dominion across the green lands, securing the Neck and everything above. Every stronghold will yield to us, one by one."

Theon looked at his father, his face showing concern at his father's strategy.

"Winterfell may defy us for a year, but what of it?" the Lord Reaper of Pyke continued. "The rest shall be ours, forest, field, and hall."

"And we'll take the weak mainlanders as thralls to sow our fields," Victarion concluded. "What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. The Iron Islands will thrive once again, and we will be an independent kingdom. Permanently."

"Yara, my daughter. You will take 30 longships and attack Deepwood Motte around Sea Dragon Point. March quickly, and the castle may fall before they even know what hit them."

"I've always wanted a castle," she said sweetly, smiling like a cat in cream.

"Then take one."

Theon had to bite his tongue. Deepwood Motte was the stronghold of House Glover. With Lord Galbart Glover in the south attending the royal wedding with Robb Stark, it would be lightly held as only a small contingent force stationed there was under the command of his brother Robett Glover. And once the castle fell, the ironborn would have a secure base of operations in the North.

"Victarion, the main thrust shall fall to you. Once the attack begins, Winterfell will respond. You should meet small opposition as you sail up Saltspear and the Fever River. At the headwaters, you will be less than twenty miles from Moat Cailin. The Neck is the key to the North. Already we command the western seas. Once we hold Moat Cailin, the pup will not be able to win back to the North and if he is fool enough to try, his enemies will seal the south end of the causeway behind him, and the Stark boy will find himself caught like a rat in a bottle."

"I will not fail. May the Drowned God bless our swords," Victarion nodded in acknowledgement and left the room to gather his men. It was time for the kraken to rise from the sea once again.

Theon, having heard more than enough, felt it was time to speak up. "Father!" he said rather loudly, more than he would have liked. "I fought with Robb Stark, I know his men. I know Daveth Baratheon, I know how he strategizes. Robb won't give up the North so easily, rise up against the Oathkeeper and he'll put every ironborn—man, woman and child—to the sword. It'll be the end of us."

Balon, however, didn't seem to care what his last surviving son thought. "What are our words?  _Our_  words." he asked.

Theon gulped. "'We do not sow'," he answered.

"'We do not sow'," his father replied. "We're not subjects, we're not slaves. We do not plough the fields or toil in the mine. We take what is ours," Balon told Theon, his voice rising with mild irritation. "Your time with the wolves has made you weak."

"You act as if I volunteered to go! Do you remember? You gave me away, if you remember! The day you bent the knee to Robert Baratheon after he crushed you! Did you take what was yours then?!"

***SMACK!***

In a fit of black rage, Balon Grejoy raised his hand and smacked Theon across the face, sending the boy stumbling backwards. As the Lord Reaper of Pyke turned to storm out, Theon rose back to his feet.

" _You_  gave me away! Your boy! Your  _last_  boy!" he continued yelling. " _You_  gave me away like I was some dog you didn't want anymore! And now you curse me because I've come home!"

Balon said nothing and stormed out of the castle with his daughter Yara in tow. Before she left, Yara turned to look back at her brother.

"Make your choice, Theon," she said simply, "and do it quickly. Our ships sail with or without you."

* * *

**At one of Littlefinger's brothels in King's Landing…**

* * *

Two off-duty Lannister soldiers had been "occupying" themselves with two prostitutes, each of them across from one another sitting in the men's laps. From the looks on their face, the men are enjoying themselves so far. One of them in particular began singing.

> _And so he spoke, and so he spoke,  
>  the Lord of Castamere,_
> 
> _But now the rains weep o'er his hall,_  
>  with no one there to hear.  
>  Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,  
>  and not a soul to hear…

  

He stopped singing as he saw someone walking into the room, both men and their whores noticed. The man in question was Prince Oberyn Martell, who had arrived at the capital yesterday before the others did. He his face was lined and saturnine, with thin arched brows, black lustrous hair with a few tints of silver, dark brown but almost black eyes and a black beard and mustache to match. He wore golden and yellowish-orange attire with the sigil of House Martell sewn onto it with a brown leather belt and a dagger attached to his hip; a salty Dornishman for certain. Approaching the Lannister men, Oberyn brushed his hand across a lit candle – effortlessly ignoring the burn to his palm. Once he stopped approaching, both Lannister men looked at the Dornish prince.

"You lost, friend?" one of them asked.

"Forgive me for staring," Oberyn said. "I don't see many Lannisters where I'm from."

"I don't see many Dornishmen in the capital," the other Lannister soldier retorted.

"We don't like the smell; though I have noticed a rather significant improvement. Your King finally decided enough was enough with the sewage and other bodily wastes that pollute this city?"

The Lannister soldiers frowned at that perceived insult until a black-haired woman came rushing into the room. She also had the same coloring as Oberyn, but wore a sleeveless, seductive silk dress. Her name was Ellaria Sand, a bastard of House Uller and Prince Oberyn's paramour. Although not accounted as a beautiful woman, Ellaria is regarded as attractive and eye-catching, with an exotic, sensuous flair.

"Come with me, lover," Ellaria beseeched Oberyn.

The off-duty soldiers were quick to take notice of this exotic woman standing before them. "Gods, look at this one," one of them leered.

One of the male prostitutes, Olyvar, entered the room and tried to diffuse the tension building up. "Sirs, if you follow me, I'll arrange for a private room," Olyvar offered.

But no one was listening as the Lannister men continued throwing lecherous barbs. "Why are you wasting a woman like this on a Dornishman?" one of them exclaimed. "Bring him a shaved goat and a bottle of olive oil."

Oberyn felt nerves in his hand twitch. Though it was a common joke, any Dornish who heard that utterly flipped out. The Prince made his way to the men until he was right in their faces as they slowly began to stand up. He decided that he's had enough. "Hmm. Do you know why all the world hates a Lannister?" the Martell prince asked. "You think your gold and your lions and your gold lions make you better than everyone. May I tell you a secret?"

The man in front of him leaned in. "What?" he dared.

"You're not a golden lion. You're just a pink little man who is far too slow on the draw."

The off-duty Lannister angrily reached to grab his longsword, but Oberyn unsheathed his dagger so quickly before anyone had a chance to react and sank it deep into the man's wrist—the tip of the dagger pinned him to the table as he screamed in agony, blood pouring from his wrist.

***SCHWING! STAB!***

"GRAAAAAAH!" he screamed.

Oberyn leaned in. "Longsword is a bad option in close quarters," he gloated before turning to the other Lannister guard, his tone lowered into a threatening one as he began twisting the dagger around. "When I pull my blade, your friend starts bleeding. Quite a lot, I'm afraid. So many veins in the wrist. He'll live if you get him help straight away. So… decisions."

The pinned guard screamed as he companion put his sword back into its sheath. Oberyn finally pulled the dagger out as the Lannister men left the room to seek medical treatment. That was when Tyrion Lannister and Bronn entered the room and saw the whole mess taking place.

"We heard there… might be… trouble…"

Oberyn paid him no mind as he redirected his attention towards Ellaria. "Apologies, my love," he said and engaged in a passionate making out session.

"Ahem!" Tyrion cleared his throat. "I'm here to welcome you to the capital."

Oberyn finally broke the kiss with Ellaria and turned to look at Tyrion. "Ellaria Sand, my paramour," the Martell prince introduced his lover and her to Tyrion. "The King's own uncle Imp. Tyrion, son of Tywin Lannister."

Tyrion felt increasingly uncomfortable all of a sudden. "If there's anything I can do to make your stay at King's Landing…"

Oberyn ignored him and looked at Bronn. "What are you? His hired killer?"

"It started that way, aye," he said simply. "Now I'm an anointed knight."

"How did that come to pass?"

"Killed the right people, I suppose."

Oberyn started laughing. "We'll need a few more girls. Girls, yes?" he asked which Bronn nodded his head. The Martell prince looked down at Tyrion. "You don't partake?" he asked the Imp.

"Oh, I partook," Tyrion mused. "Now I've got a paramour of my own, thank the Gods."

"Well aren't we full of surprises today?"

"Stick around long enough, you'll find I'm just chalk full of them. The King is very grateful that you traveled all this way for his wedding."

Oberyn suddenly stopped smiling and motioned for Ellaria, Bronn and Olyvar to leave the room. Once they are alone, the Dornish prince finally spoke up in a serious, composed nature. "Let us speak truth here," he began. "I am only the second son, yet the legendary Oathkeeper himself couldn't find the time to greet me?"

"My nephew's been called away at the last minute to see his tailoring finished. You should've seen how disappointed he was to be called away at the last minute," the Imp said apologetically. "Speaking as a fellow second son, however, I've grown used to the family insult. So tell me… why did you really come to King's Landing?"

"I was invited to the royal wedding."

_'He's hiding something,'_  Tyrion thought. "I thought we were speaking truthfully here."

Oberyn inhaled and exhaled rather slowly, knowing that there was indeed more to the story and excuses than he was letting on. "The last time I was in the capital was… ooh, how long was it? Twenty-three years ago," Oberyn reminisced. "There was another wedding. My sister Elia and Rhaegar Targaryen, the Last Dragon. My sister loved him. She bore his children. Swaddled them, rocked them, fed them at her own breast. Elia wouldn't let the wet nurses touch them," he chuckled as he remembered his late niece and nephew Rhaenys and Aegon. Then his smile instantly dropped into a deep frown. "And beautiful, noble Rhaegar Targaryen left her for another woman." Oberyn curled his hands into a fist, clenching so hard Tyrion thought the bones themselves might snap due to the pressure. "That started a war, you know," he continued, "and the war ended right here, when  _your_  father's army took the city."

Tyrion gulped. "I wasn't there—"

"They  _butchered_  those children," the Dornish prince interrupted the Imp. "My nephew and niece. Carved them up and wrapped them in Lannister cloaks. And my sister, you know what they did to her?"

Tyrion said nothing.

Annoyed, Oberyn leaned in. "I'm asking you a questioned."

"I've heard the rumors."

"So have I. The one I keep hearing is that Gregor Clegane the Mountain raped Elia and split her in half with his great sword."

"I wasn't there," the Imp persisted. "I don't know what happened."

"And then, just about almost two years ago House Martell received a raven from King Daveth Baratheon, extending his hand and made us an offer of reconciliation."

The Master of Coin's head shot straight up.  _'What offer?'_  he thought surprised.  _'What exactly did Daveth promise the Martells?'_

"In exchange for… 'returning to the fold', as he so charmingly put it…" Oberyn spoke more softly. "The King would see to it that Dorne would get the justice that was denied to us after so long, that he would give us the Mountain's own head and Dorne would be treated much more fairly. Must've been hard for the boy; to make such a bold move. Because if the Mountain killed my sister, then your father—the King's own grandfather—gave the order."

Tyrion tried to look away, but Oberyn placed his fingers under the Imp's chin to return his gaze to his.

"Tell your father I'm here," Oberyn warned. "Tell your nephew I'm here. And tell them the Lannisters aren't the only ones who pay their debts."


	38. Cold Winds Are Rising in the North

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The cold winds are rising, and the dead rise with them." --Tyrion Lannister

* * *

**Somewhere in the Riverlands…**

* * *

 

Deep within the woods, two individuals had taken a moment's rest after having been on the move for so long. Bodrin, one of King Daveth's contacts at the capital, looked over his shoulder; in all his years he hadn't imagined that at some point in his life he'd be watching over the last of King Robert's bastards. Gendry, a tall and muscular young lad with blue eyes and thick black hair, was a blacksmiths apprentice before the massacre at King's Landing broke out. He kept his bull's head helmet strapped around his waist as the unacknowledged bastard pulled out his hammer to chisel one of the nearby stones.

"You ever get tired of doing that?" Bodrin asked.

Gendry shook his head. "Been hammering an anvil for 10 years," he answered. "Thought things were right as rain, before the goldcloaks started killin' babes in their homes."

Bodrin shuddered as he was reminded of that day in King's Landing when the riots broke out. He heard screams, shouting and cries flood the streets as teenagers, children and infants were butchered by rogue City Watchmen and Commander Janos Slynt like animals. Bodrin barely managed to escape the carnage, but was able to find his way to Tobho Mott's shop and take Gendry out of King's Landing when he realized what was going on. "I know how much you hated leaving," he spoke with condolence. "But the city just wasn't safe for you anymore."

"But why? Why me? Why did the goldcloaks wanted me dead so badly?"

"We both know that it was only a small group of them City Watch who wanted you dead. Last I heard, those who were involved were banished to the Wall. Well, all except for Janos Slynt; heard that the bald, arrogant cunt got his head chopped off by the Oathkeeper himself."

"And why would the King care about a bunch of bastards?"

Bodrin had to think of a lie. "Bastard or no, I don't believe anyone should deserve such cruelty. I think, at least I hope, that was why the King did what he did."

"You sound as if you know him."

"In a manner of speaking."

"And where exactly did you grow up? Some highborn prick's estate?"

Bodrin felt himself getting tense. "Flea Bottom, actually," he answered, "though both my parents were originally from the Reach. Pops was a farmer, ma was a tavern wench. They died when I was very young."

Now Gendry felt ashamed. "Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean—"

"No, no. It's alright, my boy. I get where you're coming from. Highborn and their gold always get in the way of what's most important in life."

"Tch, tell me about that," Gendry dryly replied as he set his hammer down. "You never did say where we're going, though."

"The Red Fork."

"And that's where?" he asked.

Bodrin took a moment to explain. "It's one of the largest rivers engulfing the Trident. We find it, and we move west from there to Riverrun. I've got a friend there who's in service to Lord Edmure Tully. We convince Lord Tully to take you in, you'll be safer there."

"How would—"

Before Gendry could ask questions, Bodrin immediately grabbed the boy and forced him to the ground. Around the corner, they could hear someone singing in a masculine tone. Whoever was singing, their voice was getting louder. That told Bodrin and Gendry that they were getting close.

> _A lion still has claws…_

"Could a minstrel," Gendry whispered.

"I don't think so. This one sounds drunk."

> _And so he spoke and so he spoke,  
>  _ _That Lord of Castamere…_

Bodrin felt his eyes widen in terror as the lyrics reached his ears. Gendry took notice.

"What is it?" he asked concerned.

"That's ' _The Rains of Castamere_ ' they're singing," Bodrin whispered shakenly. "That song talks about how House Reyne and House Tarbeck were utterly destroyed by the King's own grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister. Rebelled at first, they did. But not only did Tywin crush them, he had every man, woman and child put to the sword. The Reynes and Tarbecks are all gone. This song is meant to serve as a reminder to everyone about the dangers of crossing the Lannisters. And the danger is very real."

Gendry felt his muscles get stiff as he tightened his grip on his hammer. As they remained motionless so as to stay out of sight, both Bodrin and Gendry felt silence surround the woods.

"Something's not right."

Suddenly, an arrow flew right past them and hit one of the nearby trees. Bodrin and Gendry stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the stone walls.

  

"Who's lurking behind that wall?" one of the voices called out.

Another voice began murmuring. "Doesn't seem like a lion. Maybe a wolf? Nah. Too old, I think; though he does have a stag's scent."

"Stop it!" Bodrin shouted before quickly covering his mouth, realizing he just gave their position away.

The person in question stood atop a stone above Bodrin and Gendry, kneeling down to have a much closer look. He wore a loose fitting red hide and piecemeal armor. What separated him from his companions was that as he drank of swill of ale, was his red hair and red beard with a few strands of grey in it.

"Never thought I'd see a merchant and a smith waddling about the woods," he belched. "Why're you here?"

"Just leave us alone, ser."

The man laughed. "This one's got balls! That tells me you're dangerous when your back's against the wall. I like that."

"Who are you?" Gendry asked.

"Thoros of Myr," he introduced himself.

Bodrin had heard the name before. "Thoros of Myr as in the man wielding a flaming sword who charged through the breach on Pyke almost single-handed…?" he asked.

Thoros waved his arms out in a humorous fashion. "The one and only," he grinned. "This fellow with the bow to my left is Anguy."

"Who do you fight for?"

"The Brotherhood Without Banners. And before you say anything, son, you've got nothing to fear from us. We're only trying to save those who can't look after themselves around these parts."

Gendry looked at Bodrin, who was equally uncertain as what to do next. At that time, Anguy took the time to speak up.

"We only want to talk to you."

"About what?" Bodrin demanded.

"Not my place," Anguy spoke with a hint of impatience. "Our leader wants to talk to you, because I'm done with talking."

Gendry still had his guard up, but Bodrin waved him down.

"Easy, lad," he whispered to the boy. "They've got us surrounded. Best do what they say for the time being before doing anything rash."

"Now there's a smart one," Anguy nodded in approval as the other outlaws laughed and took them both away.

Thoros looked on at the two, posturing slightly albeit a bit wobbly from the ale. "Curious," he spoke quietly to himself. "Curious indeed…"

As Thoros left to catch up to his crew, a certain direwolf with smoke grey fur and yellow eyes remained in the shadows behind him to stare at him. The beast sniffed the air and gave a small growl before turning around and ran off in the other direction.

* * *

**Somewhere beyond the Wall…**

* * *

The winds were loud and harsh, the snow beneath their boots were cold. But it was the Great Ranging party that took the brunt of the beating. Samwell Tarly, Eddison Tollet and several others had been camping at the Fist of the First Men, digging trenches as they awaited word from the infiltrating party sent into Mance Rayder's camp as well as from Lord Commander Jeor Mormont. As they dug, one of them in particular began complaining.

"How fucking degrading! This is servant's work! A Prince shouldn't be doing such manual labor!"

    
 

Samwell, Edd and the others looked at the sworn brother complaining. Dressed in all black, with the exception of his golden hair and green eyes, was the disgraced former Prince Joffrey Baratheon who was exiled to Castle Black by his older brother King Daveth for inciting a riot and the massacre of almost every one of King Robert's bastards. Before his arrival, a raven informed Maester Aemon and Lord Commander Mormont of Joffrey's behavior so they'd been preparing themselves for inevitable tension. They were right in taking the warning seriously.

"Only difference is that you're not a Prince anymore," Edd countered.

"You're one of us now," Pypar added. "You're part of the Night's Watch. Bet the truth hurts, doesn't it?"

Grenn decided to remind Joffrey of an important fact. "And if you think about deserting, then you're head's going to be on the chopping block. The Lord Commander'll see to it personally. Always does."

Joffrey scowled as he kept digging. "I've done nothing wrong," he growled.

"King says otherwise," Samwell said boldly. "You don't do such things the way you did and not expect to be punished for it."

"Shut up!"

"Pipe down, Illborn!" Grenn shouted.

Joffrey felt his rage and humiliation boil as that word was hurled at him. He didn't like being called that, especially from his brother. Now that other Night's Watchmen were calling him that, it degraded him even further.

"I'm not cut out for this sort of work," Samwell panted as he took a brief pause from digging.

"I can't imagine anything much worse," Edd remarked.

"Where do you think Jon is right now?" Pypar wondered.

"Went off with the Halfhand, but didn't come back."

Joffrey felt his lips curl up. "My money is he's dead."

"He's not dead!" Samwell shouted, feeling heat rising in his voice at that perceived insult towards his friend. The others apparently felt the same. "No, Jon's a great fighter. It'll take much more than that to bring him down."

Grenn nodded. "He's better than me, a lot better than Sam, and superior to you, Joff."

" _No_   _one_  is better than  _me_!"

"'No one'?" he mocked. "You got your ass kicked the day you arrived in the courtyard! We all saw it. Don't kid yourself, Illborn."

The others joined in laughing as Joffrey gritted his teeth. He slammed the shovel so far down it hit against a flat surface.

"What was that?" Edd asked.

Samwell walked over and brushed some snow aside and it revealed an ancient stone tablet with a detailed circular pattern of unique design. Physically, the ring fort is a simple circle of large megalithic stones around the top of the hill. The stones are incredibly ancient, the site having been used as a defensive position for well over six thousand years.

"The First Men made these marks," he examined before seeing a hidden cache underneath it. "And there! Look! That's a Night's Watch cloak."

"It's been here a long time," Grenn observed.

"Who cares about some bloody black cloak buried underneath a pile of snow in the middle of scenic nowhere?" Joffrey muttered under his breath.

The others pretended not to hear it as they began unraveling the cache to reveal black, spear-headed volcanic glass and an ancient horn.

"Must be dragonglass."

Grenn looked confused. "'Dragonglass'?"

"The maesters call it obsidian," Samwell explained.

"Why would a brother hide it here?"

Edd looked at the materials. "Probably because he wanted someone to find it. We didn't find wildlings, just shit to burn to keep warm."

"Well, you see a tree, let me know," Pypar said as he warmed his hands.

***HORN!***

Once they heard a horn blast in the distance, Edd, Grenn, Pypar, Joffrey and Samwell stopped digging and immediately stood straight up. Samwell noticed the first horn and smiled hopefully.

"It's Jon and the Halfhand," Samwell said. "They're back!"

***HORN!***

Smiles stopped and all grew very defensive. Joffrey was started to get a little frightened.

"What? What is it? What does it mean!?" he demanded.

"Two blasts is wildlings," Grenn explained as he drew his sword.

Edd shook his head. "You're not fighting them alone. None of us are. Come on."

As they moved forward, they heard it again.

***HORN!***

Three times. Once they've heard the horn blasts three times, Edd, Grenn, Pyar, Joffrey and Samwell all equally stood terrified at that sound. To them, that only meant one thing.

"Three blasts?" Grenn murmured dreadfully.

"What does it mean?! What does it mean?!" Joffrey's voice cracked, trembling with fear.

Without hesitation, Edd immediately began barking orders. "Run!" he shouted.

Three out of four of Night's Watchmen sprinted as fast as their legs could carry them, just as visibility dropped dramatically—leaving Samwell alone.

"Wait! Wait for me!" he called out. "Grenn! Edd! Pypar! Joffrey!"

No response came as Samwell turned to look behind him and saw three barely visible figures in the distance slowly advancing towards him. Panicking, Samwell ran to the nearest stone just large enough to keep him from being spotted from whoever was following him whilst the blizzard continues raging the Fist of the First Men plateau and its surrounding areas.

Slightly looking over his shoulder, Samwell spotted what looks to be armed wildlings—but something was off. Their skin was pale, some showed signs of decaying, some were clothed as others were not. What made them all similar to one another was they all had the same glowing blue eyes. Samwell still trembled in fear of being spotted, as he knew these people used to be wildlings but have been turned into wights, reanimated corpses (either animal or human) raised from death by the White Walkers to act as minions. There were thousands, tens of thousands if not more that kept going past him. It was a vast horde of undead. Momentarily believing to have avoided them, Samwell immediately went back against the boulder again when a decaying horse stepped forward before coming to a stop. Atop stood a pale, gaunt figure riding atop of the undead animal. White hair with a white beard, but mummified, this being was in fact a White Walker—an ancient race of humanoid ice creatures long thought to be gone for thousands of years before the Age of Heroes and were believed to be nothing more than creatures of legend to most living south of the Wall.

The White Walker finds Sam but for reasons unknown ignores him, riding past him atop a wight horse and leading the horde for an invasion.

***SCREECH!***

Holding an ice spear in the air pointing towards the Fist of the First Men, the White Walker began emitting a screeching roar with another White Walker not too far behind as thousands of more wights began coming into view. As the cold wind rises, the dead come marching with it. If Samwell didn't reunite with his sworn brothers and warn all of Westeros, then it would be too late. The Long Night would return for the first time in thousands of years. And this time, they wouldn't be able to stop them.


	39. From This Day, Until The End of My Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*: The following content may not be appropriate for certain persons under the age of 18 (depending on the legal age requirements in countries outside the United States) and may contain NSFW material such strong language, nudity, profanity and/or sexual themes that some viewers may find offensive. If you are under 18, do not view such content. Viewer discretion is advised.
> 
> If you are 18 and up, enjoy!

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

The hour had arrived. Bells rang throughout the streets of King's Landing as many of the capital's denizens and others from across the Seven Kingdoms—nobles and commoners alike—flocked to the Great Sept of Baelor, most of them bearing gifts. The official wedding ceremony of King Daveth I Baratheon to Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell was underway.

   
 

In her chambers, Sansa had been dressed for her wedding. Her long Tully-auburn hair was donned as a southern highborn lady's fashion, wound up in pearls with only two braids going down her shoulders; her sleeveless wedding gown's brocade was of the finest silks and its colors consisted of House Baratheon's black/golden tones with small stag sigil embroidery being woven through. Her mother Catelyn Stark, her handmaiden Shae, and best friend Jeyne Poole were making the final adjustments. While Jeyne trimmed Sansa's nails, Shae dabbed a sharp sweet fragrances with a hint of lemon on Sansa's bare skin—fingers, behind each ear, and lightly under her chin.

"All these years and you still have such beautiful hair, my little one," Catelyn mused as she slowly brushed her daughter's hair.

"I love my hair, mother," Sansa spoke in a sweet voice, soft and precise. She'd been smiling all day, dreaming of this moment. And now it's finally happening. "We'll be walking through the Sept of Baelor soon. All the lords and ladies will be watching."

"That they will," Jeyne added as she put the finishing touches to Sansa's gown, fastening a slender silver chain around it. "Look at you! Queen Sansa of the Seven Kingdoms."

"No matter what comes next, never forget that I am a Stark. I will always be a Stark."

Catelyn shook her head in amusement as she put the brush down. Sansa stood from her seat to momentarily look in the mirror, brushing her delicate hands through her hair before turning around.

"Thank you all for coming, everyone. I am grateful," she told all in attendance. "It means a lot to me that you would come all the way here to attend my wedding. Although saddens me to be so far from Winterfell, away from the friends I've made in the North, I will always treasure the memories we've shared together. The North remembers.  _We_  remember."

"The North remembers," they all repeated.

Catelyn walked up to her eldest daughter, placing both her hands on Sansa's cheeks. "My little girl is now a young woman," she spoke gently, her voice filled with a mother's love. "If only your father would see this. You have grown up so much. I… I'm so proud of you, Sansa."

Sansa tried not to weep at her mother's words. She too dreamt that her father was here with her, too, but told herself that Eddard Stark must have been watching over her. All tender moments were briefly halted when a knock on the door was heard. Shae opened and revealed Robb Stark standing before them.

"Sansa," he greeted his sister.

Sansa curtsied. "Brother," she replied.

"It's time."

Sansa took a deep breath, inhaled through her nose and calmly exhaled; though it couldn't stop from feeling a nervous tremble from shaking her hand slightly.  _'Calm yourself,'_  she thought to herself.  _'Remember: You are a Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, Warden of the North. Be brave. You can do this.'_

Afterwards, she could not remember leaving the room or descending the steps or crossing the yard towards the Great Sept of Baelor. The bells continued ringing loudly as the smallfolk were examining Sansa closely, many eager to get a look at the new Queen. As per the King's order, Ser Meryn Trant and Ser Lucius Blackmyre walked beside her, in cloaks as white as snow. Inside the sept, standing atop the seven-pointed star, each guest was in attendance as Robb took Sansa from the Kingsguard knights and walked her down the aisle.

"I'm to act as your father today," Robb whispered.

"I know, Robb," Sansa whispered as well. "Still… thank you for doing this for me."

The young Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North's face gave a brief warm expression to his younger sibling. "You are my sister. We might be farther apart now, but you are still a daughter of the North. We will always heed your call should you ever need us. Remember that."

Sansa felt a hint of comfort at Robb's words.  _'Of course I won't be alone_ ,' she reminded herself of that and exchanged brief glances with those in attendance.

To her left, Sansa noticed a few nobles from the Crownlands, Reach, Stormlands and the Riverlands. She could see her mother, Jeyne Poole and her sister Arya in attendance. Whatever guests who managed to arrive from either the North or Vale were difficult to spot. To her right, Sansa spotted nobles from the Westerlands—those she was able to detect right away were Tyrion Lannister, Ser Jaime Lannister, Prince Tommen Baratheon, Lord Hand Tywin Lannister… and of course, Cersei Lannister herself. Most pretended not to notice, but Sansa and Cersei seemed to exchange what seemed to be long glances—if not glares—at each other.

_'So now the stag and direwolf finally crawl into bed together. You must be feeling very proud of yourself right about now, Robert,'_  thought Cersei bitterly.  _'This fight isn't over yet. You'll see. They'll all see. No one takes from a lion.'_

Sansa broke contact and saw the man she dreamed of seeing today. King Daveth stood before her on the steps alongside the High Septon, resplendent in black and gold, thigh-high dark leather boots, crimson sleeves and a golden stag crown on his head. He extended his hand forward, to which Robb stopped at the first step of the marriage alter and gave Sansa over. She raised her hand graciously and took Daveth's hand in hers as Sansa now stood side-by-side with the man the Stark maiden is marrying.

 

"You look very beautiful, Sansa," Daveth whispered into her ear.

Sansa smiled and blushed deeply. "And I must say you look very handsome this morning, my King," she replied.

Daveth shook his head in amusement. "Nervous?" he asked.

"A little, yes."

"Good. I feel the same, I must confess."

In between the statues of the Mother and the Father, stood the High Septon preparing to join the two youth's lives together. This old man, head of the Faith of the Seven religious doctrine, was appointed by King Daveth to the position after his predecessor was torn to pieces during the riot of King's Landing some time ago. White of hair and large white sideburns, the High Septon was chosen by the Most Devout at Daveth's behest was a good man and easy to approach.

The ceremony was like a dream turned reality. Sansa did all that was required of her. There were prayers and vows and singing, and tall candles burning, a hundred dancing lights that the tears in her eyes transformed into a thousand. Sansa felt the clasp of her maiden's cloak being removed from her shoulders, looking over to see Robb taking their father's colors from her as Daveth presented her with the bride's cloak and moved behind her. The bride's cloak he held was huge and heavy, black velvet silk with gold stags and bordered with gold satins and crimson rubies. Sansa blushed. She dreamed of her wedding a thousand times, and always she had pictured how her betrothed would stand behind her tall and strong, sweep the cloak of his protection over her shoulders and tenderly kiss her cheek as he leaned forward to fasten the clasp. Then without warning, Sansa felt Daveth give her a quick peck on the cheek as he wrapped a cloak of Baratheon colors around her shoulders to bring her under his protection and felt as if time itself stood still. She was caught off-guard at Daveth's brief affection, but felt her heart melt nonetheless as that part of her dream was realized as Daveth returned to stand alongside her.

The High Septon cleared his throat and gazed at the couple. "Your Grace, my lady," he began before turning his attention towards Cersei. "Your Grace. Lords and ladies of the court, we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife." On que, Daveth and Sansa held their hands and brought them upwards as the High Septon proceeded to tie a ribbon in a knot around their joined hands, symbolizing their union. "Let it be known that Sansa of House Stark," he continued, "and Daveth of the House Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul. Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder."

Daveth and Sansa exchanged glances as Tommen looked up at his eldest brother. Jaime and Tyrion watched on in silence, but judging by their facial expressions could tell they were both equally proud of their nephew on this historic day. Barristan Selmy and Lucius Blackmyre stood by on guard, but Barristan felt a warm smile creep form on his face. Tywin remained standing tall and proud, saying nothing at all and gave no expression. Catelyn, Robb and Arya watched on as one of their own was about to say her vows; the Tully-turned-Stark matriarch had to wipe away a few strands of tears, her heart swelling with pride and joy for her eldest daughter.

"In the sight of the Seven," the High Septon announced, "I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." He took a moment to look at Daveth and Sansa. "Look upon each other and say the words," he told them.

With that, Daveth and Sansa turned to look each other right in the eyes—their hands still tied in the ribbon before reciting their vows simultaneously.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Daveth vowed, "and take you for my Queen and wife."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Sansa vowed, "and take you for my King and husband."

Cupping Sansa's cheek with his free hand, Daveth leaned forward and pulled Sansa close to bring his lips to hers, kissing her long and deep. Sansa hummed happily and kissed Daveth back affectionately. Cersei watched on as her first son locked lips with mild irritation, but failed to recognize that Catelyn watched her composure very closely and noticed something was wrong—however she said nothing out of respect for her daughter and her son-in-law.

_'She's up to something,'_  Catelyn thought suspiciously.  _'Gods be good, this is supposed to be a joyous occasion, Cersei. What are you up to?'_

***APPLAUSE!***

Daveth and Sansa pulled apart and faced the crowd, raising their now-unwrapped hands high in the air before the Seven-Pointed Star.

"My lords and ladies, I now present the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms!"

***LOUDER APPLAUSE!***

* * *

**In the Small Hall…**

* * *

Night falls upon the city, yet the wedding feast was rather festive. Music was playing, the food and drink was delicious, and court jesters kept the attendees laughing. The only person  _not_  enjoying themselves was Cersei Lannister, who sipped what appeared to be her third cup of wine. She was watching her son Daveth and Sansa closely, her grip on the cup tightening. Her position as Queen was gone, taken by a younger maiden younger more beautiful than the Golden Lioness. Cersei came close to shaking, watching Sansa laugh as Daveth whispered something into her ear. Any power Cersei had was effectively gone.

"Cersei," Jaime called out to his twin.

Cersei turned to see her brother approaching with a small cup of wine. "Why are you here?" she curtly murmured.

Jaime felt a bit taken aback by his sister's rudeness. "I thought you'd be happy."

"And what reason should I  _be_  happy?"

"Cersei, he's your son!" the Kingslayer hushed with fire in his whispers, trying to avoid attracting attention to himself and his sister.

"And for that I'm at risk for being sent back to Casterly Rock, while my son spends his nights bedding his wife," the former Queen Mother ignored him and walked away.

Jaime was surprised by Cersei's outburst and walking away from him, taking a quick glance at his nephew before looking back at his sister. She imposed a formality on their relationship. It is a paltry thing, but this is the authority that remains to her as former Queen Mother, the little power she can claim as Daveth's mother. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. But that maxim does not mention how painful and protracted your life can become before it ends.

_'You're such a hateful woman, Cersei,'_  he thought.  _'Why have the Gods condemned me to love such a hateful woman like you?'_

Daveth, meanwhile, had been spending his time with his blushing bride sitting next to him.

"Surely you jest," Sansa laughed at one of Daveth's comments. "Who would do a thing like that and not expect such a punishment in return?"

"The Lord of Rook's Rest, apparently," he explained the joke. "But that scandal was nothing compared to the gossip I heard Lord Bar Emmon tell at Sharp Point six years ago."

When the musicians began to play a different song, Daveth offered his hand to Sansa. "Would you care to join the dance with me, my Queen?"

Sansa smiled. "I would love to, my King," she said, as she took his hand.

Every lord and lady assembled looked at the King and their new Queen joining them on the floor. Elinor danced with her young squire, and Margaery Tyrell with Prince Tommen. Petyr Baelish danced with his wife Lady Lysa Arryn, and Robb with Talisa. Oberyn danced with his paramour Ellaria Sand, much to the court's public dismay. Lady Merryweather, the Myrish beauty with the black hair and the big dark eyes, spun so provocatively that every man in the hall was soon watching her. Lord Mace and Lady Alerie Tyrell moved more sedately. Ser Kevan Lannister begged the honor of Lady Janna Fossoway. Merry Crane took the floor with the exile prince Jalabhar Xho, gorgeous in his feathered finery. Cersei Lannister partnered first Lord Paxter Redwyne, then Lord Rowan, and finally her own father Lord Hand Tywin Lannister, who danced with smooth unsmiling grace.

Sansa continued her dance with Daveth, noting his movements and sidestepping. A bit of awkwardness, but the Stark Queen could tell her husband was trying his best. It was so sweet and silly that Sansa tried to ignore it. Daveth noted how graceful and elegant the way Sansa was dancing, captivating those around them. She let the music take her, losing herself in the steps, in the sound of flute and pipes and harp, in the rhythm of the drum… such an activity that was the only thing lost on Daveth as he moved to pick up the pace.

"So… how does it feel to be married?" he asked quietly.

"It's like… like a maiden's dream come true. Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamt of my knight in shining armor taking me away to his castle," Sansa sighed as she laid her head against Daveth's torso. "And when I wake up, come morning… I see you."

_'Still a maiden in love,'_  thought Daveth as he held his wife close.

The two remained close it was time to change partners. For a while, Sansa danced with Mace Tyrell, an oaf yet amiable man, and then her cousin Robin Arryn, and then Prince Tommen.

"Welcome to the family, Sansa," said the youngest Baratheon warmly. "Or… should I start calling you 'sister' now?"

"You flatter me, Prince Tommen," chuckled Sansa, before the partners changed again.

Ser Kevan Lannister told her she was beautiful, Lord Yohn Royce wished her many children and long years of joy. And then the dance brought her face-to-face with Petyr Baelish. She stiffened as his hand touched hers and drew her closer.

"I believe congratulations are in order, Your Grace. My, my. You've made quite an impression at court; set tongues in half the men in the room wagging."

Be that as it may, Sansa felt uncomfortable as she danced with her uncle by marriage. His hands were deft and sure and smelt of mint.

"I meant no offense, if that's your concern," he slyly reassured her as they whirled to the music. "Just stating the obvious that you're even more beautiful than your mother Cat was when she was your age."

"I'm sure you had your reasons for saying that, Lord Baelish."

"Petyr."

"Petyr, then. And you are quite certain that my aunt Lysa has no qualm with your choice in dance partners?"

Littlefinger shook his head in mock hurt. "You wound me. She knows I only want what is best for you and your future. You've married a Baratheon—the  _Oathkeeper_ —and soon you'll be helping build a powerful dynasty. It's only natural for family to look after one another, so those who claim to be your friend do not use you for their own gain."

Thankfully, it was time to change again. Her legs had turned to wood, though, and Lord Royce, Ser Tallad, and Elinor's squire all must have thought her a very clumsy dancer. And then she was back with Daveth once more, and soon, blessedly, the dance was over. It was at this time that the Hand of the King, Daveth's grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister, approached the two.

"You two appear to be enjoying yourselves," Tywin said. He did not deter from his stance, but he did give his grandson a long look as if to remind him of what's more important.

Sansa blinked for a moment and felt intimidated by the Old Lion's presence, but it was Daveth that picked up on his grandfather's words.

"I assume you mean the bedding ceremony, grandfather?" he pressed.

Tywin nodded. "You do remember your lessons, don't you?"

"A King needs a Queen to further the family line," Daveth nodded in return.

"And to ensure the survival of the family, you're going to have to give your wife one. And to do so, you need to perform."

Tyrion took the moment to intervene on his nephew's behalf. "I'm sure His Grace is more than capable of performing on his own, father. He just needs some… encouragement."

Daveth's eye widened. "Tyrion!" he hissed in embarrassment, his face turning bright red. "You can drink, you can joke, you can engage in revelry to make me rather uncomfortable sometimes, but need I have to remind you to keep such comments like that to yourself."

Tyrion humorously raised his hands up in mock submission and tried to not laugh when he noticed the look on his nephew's face. Sansa, however, felt embarrassed as well at the mere mention of the bedding ceremony being required for the bride and groom to consummate their marriage. For after the feast would come the bedding. The men would carry Sansa up to her wedding bed, undressing her on the way and making rude jokes about the fate that awaited her between the sheets, while the women did Daveth the same honors. Only after they had been bundled naked into bed would they be left alone, and even then the guests would stand outside the bridal chamber, shouting ribald suggestions through the door. The bedding had seemed wonderfully wicked and exciting when Sansa was a girl, but now that the moment was upon her she didn't want to think about any woman than her laying their hands on her husband like that. 

It was at this moment that Robb Stark made his way to the group, boldly approaching the Lannisters twice his age and experience. "Lord Tywin," he spoke. "If you think the time is right, then by all means, let us bed them."

Everybody started cheering as the band starts playing celebratory music.

"To bed! To bed! To bed!" the guests chanted.

Daveth said nothing but glared at Robb, as if meaning to say "I'm going to kill you later for making me endure this in front of everyone." Robb, however, had merely found Daveth's discomfort to be rather amusing. To the young Lord of Winterfell, it showed that his best friend still cared about what said in front of him as dozens of men and women alike gathered around the new royal couple and led them to their chambers, making ribald jokes along the way.

Sansa yelped as the men carried her, but noticed the men carrying her were silenced when she caught Daveth casting what seemed to be an angry glare at them—as if warning them not to undress his Queen in front of him and keep their big mouths shut and their hands to themselves. The men dared not incite the Oathkeeper's fury on his wedding day.

* * *

**At the royal bedchamber…**

* * *

Both men and women laid Daveth and Sansa down in their room, some whispering good luck to them and silently made their way out to leave them alone. Once they knew for sure they were alone, Sansa felt her heart rate increase.

"Well…" Sansa tried to speak rather flushed.

"Well…" Daveth tried to do the same, but surprisingly found himself unable to. The King breathed as he fetched two goblets before turning to look at his wife. "Sorry for my display earlier," he apologized as he poured a flagon of Arbor gold for each of them.

Sansa looked at Daveth. "What do you mean?"

"I… there was a reason why I instructed them not to do… what they did," he took a moment to explain. "The thought of other men… touching you… I don't know; something in me just… just snapped."

The new Queen slowly began to piece the puzzle pieces together, coming to an understanding Daveth's motivations on the way to the room.

_'He's jealous,'_  she concluded.

"I hope you'll forgive me."

Sansa walked over to Daveth and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "There's nothing to apologize," she said plainly. "Come sit with me."

Daveth said nothing but did what Sansa requested and sat next to her. He handed her a cup and they drank the Arbor gold, though Sansa drained half her cup in three long swallows while she noticed Daveth drank the whole goblet in one go. No doubt it was very fine wine. It was starting to make her head spin, though Sansa was sober enough to know Daveth's posture had shifted slightly. Gently, she placed her hand on his.

"Talk to me," she beseeched him. "What's bothering you?"

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "It's nothing, Sansa," he answered. "Just not used to such public displays Uncle Tyrion made back there."

"If it bothers you, then we don't… have to do this… if you—"

"I want to," he admitted. "We both do. It's tradition, I know. My grandfather and your brother instructed us to consummate this marriage. But… I want to do it, only if it's with you."

Sansa briefly started shaking her shoulders. "Oh! Oh, I… Then, we'll have to…" her voice trails off and she looks away, feeling her cheeks flush.

Gods preserve her! She was terrible at saying it. The Young Stag must want this too, right? He is a Baratheon after all. So why is it that both young adults were finding themselves having a hard time trying to get started? What was holding them back? Why the hesitation? Before long, Sansa began tugging at her sleeves.

"If… we are going to do this," she stated, "I only have one favor to ask."

"What's that?" he inquired.

"Please be gentle with me. It's my first time."

Daveth looked at Sansa's hand atop of his; he could see her wrist trembling slightly, indicating she was a bit nervous discussing intimacy. He cupped her cheek and turned her head to face him. "If it's what you want, then it'll be done," he nodded as his fingers card through her loose hair.

Feeling a bit relieved, Sansa took the initiative and leaned in to kiss Daveth. The Young Stag kissed her back and kept one hand on her cheek while bringing the other to grip her small waist and pushed her down onto the mattress, unmindful of the fact that they have yet to undress. A scented beeswax candle burned on the bedside table and rose petals had been strewn between the sheets. Sansa heard herself nearly squealed in surprise, gripping Daveth's shoulders.

"Mmmm," she moaned.

The make-out session was affectionate to begin with at first, but quickly turned to passion when Sansa was once again surprised when she felt an unknown intruder pocking at her lips. Daveth had been pressing his tongue against her lips, demanding entrance into her mouth; in the end, Sansa complied and whimpered as their tongues tangled with their own, each battling for dominance. After what seemed to be several minutes, Sansa briefly pulled away to allow both of them catch their breaths. Daveth stood above her, looking down at the red-haired goddess that lay in front of him. Sansa looked up at Daveth, bringing one hand to gently caress her husband's face before she felt something pressing against her thighs.

"Would you have me undress, husband? Or do you want to undress me?" she panted.

Daveth nodded. "I'd rather undress you myself, little dove. If you'd let me."

Sansa smiled at Daveth's request and watched his hands fumbling at her clothes. She had to suppress a giggle when she saw Daveth's face as he worked trying to get the laces and buttons undone. Finally Sansa had to help her husband manage the laces and buttons, and her cloak and gown and girdle and undersilk slide to the floor until she was finally in her smallclothes. Sansa shuddered as she felt goosebumps form on her arms and legs. She was blushing real hard now and momentarily looked away; too shy to look at Daveth, but when she was done she glanced up and found him ogling her. There was a hunger in his blue eyes, it seemed to her.

"So beautiful," he observed Sansa's body closely.

"The act of lovemaking is like practicing for a battle," he remembered Tyrion telling him once. "Once you get going, just go with the flow and let your instincts do the rest."

"Daveth," she whined covering her breasts with her hands, "please don't stare at me like that. It's so embarrassing…"

"Is it now?" Daveth smirked teasingly.

He leaned down and his mouth went to work on Sansa's neck. She gasped and instinctively moved her hands to undo the laces of Daveth's tunic, removing each layer one by one until she was looking at his bare chest. Sansa was in a daze. Was he always this strong? How did he get these muscles? He had rough hands, but they were always gentle just for her. As Daveth continued assaulting Sansa's neck and moved down to her collarbone, the Wolf Queen's gasped as she felt pleasurable chills going throughout her skin.

"Daveth," she called out.

On demand, Daveth looked at Sansa. "Yes, my Queen?"

"You're still clothed," Sansa pointed out. "Don't be mean. That's not fair…"

Daveth chuckled at Sansa's whining and takes off of his boots and steps out of his breeches himself; leather, warm and tight against him that is nearly painful. Both now laid in their smallclothes. After a moment Sansa heard the sound of her husband fully undressed himself completely. Before long, Daveth went back to work as he slips a knee between Sansa's thighs and presses just slightly. The gasping moan that escapes her mouth is deep and surprising, her face blushing as Sansa gazes up at Daveth with wide eyes.

"So my little dove does have a sensitive spot," he murmured against her skin.

When Daveth began acting on instinct and moved his hand to cup her breast, Sansa clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds she was making. She lay with her eyes closed, every muscle sent jolts of electricity through her body, wondering what might come next? More touching? Would he kiss her again? Should she open her legs for him now?

"Daveth," Sansa gasps again and heard herself moaning, shaking her head from side-to-side as Daveth suckled one of her nipples and slid his bare hands up her thighs to pull the ties on the last piece of her smallclothes, removing them from her.

Her eyes widened at her husband's boldness and felt the room get cold. They were both completely naked now, and acted more on instinctive impulse as they resumed their first act of lovemaking. The Young Stag can smell the simple, clean scent of the soap she used during her bath, as well as the lemon scented fragrance that was dabbed on her earlier this morning. He took removed his mouth from her nipple and traced a finger across that special spot beneath her thighs.

"Mmpphff!" Sansa tried to muffle the sounds she was making as she felt Daveth slid a finger inside of her, moving in and out of her, but she could hear the sounds she was making and recognized she was failing in her attempts to be quiet.

"Look at me, Sansa," Daveth called to her. "I want to see all of you. Please."

Panting, Sansa slowly opens her eyes, bright and feverish with longing before raising her head to press their foreheads together. She obediently removes both hands from her chest and allows Daveth full view of her breasts. "My love," Sansa pants, pressing her lips wanting a kiss.

Daveth complied with her plea and claimed her mouth. Their tongues wrapped around each other once more as Daveth moved his finger in and out of Sansa's maidenhead faster now, to which the Stark replied by bucking her hips upwards and rolled against his hand, her cries coming in time with her quickening breath. She pulled away, gasping for air as her hands gripped his shoulders, gritting her teeth together as she felt a burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. Sansa had no idea what this feeling is, but couldn't suppress it much further as her walls clamped down around Daveth's fingers and caused her to exclaim loudly.

"Daveth!" she cries, her hips shook and trembled, her upper lip glistening with sweat.

Daveth withdrew and examined the wet substance on his digits. Sansa's legs gave way but remained held against Daveth's body with his other hand.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

Sansa was still panting and breathed heavily, but shook her head. "No," she answered. "That thing… with your fingers…"

"You liked it?"

She nodded and watched him lie down next to her, wiping a few strands of hair away from her face and kiss her gently. Sansa looked down and her eyes widened at what she saw. Where his legs joined, Daveth's man staff poked up stiff and hard from a thicket of coarse black hair. Sansa and Davth looked into each other's eyes and he motions her for to make the next move considering he's been doing most of the work.

Moving her hand, Sansa grips Daveth's manhood and watches his face with something akin to wonder and awe. "You… it's so warm," she breathes, moving her hand up and down stroking his length at an agonizingly slow pace. Her grip becomes tighter and her strokes faster, shifting when she sees Daveth opening his eyes, it is to her blue eyes boring into his.

"Because of you," he groans, hissing through his teeth as he thrusted into her hand. "Sansa… I want…" Her name is like a blessing on his tongue and repeats it again and again. He wants her now.

By this point, Sansa pretty much knows what Daveth wants and bit her lower lip – feeling it trembling slightly. Up until now she'd been enjoying herself so far, but now the main event of the bedding ceremony was to begin at the King's behest. Sansa was to lose her virginity to the man she loves with all her heart. Slowly, she spread her legs apart for him.

"Please be gentle with me," Sansa reminds him. "It's my first time."

Daveth looks at his wife's face and nods understandingly. Gently moving her position, he takes her legs and brings them atop his shoulders and grabs the tip of his manhood, rubbing it up and down Sansa's maidenhead, preparing for penetration. Sansa looked down as winced as soon as she felt Daveth push and grips his arms tightly. Taking a brief moment's pause to get ready, Daveth and Sansa locked eyes. She nods for him to continue, inhaling sharply as Daveth pressed further against her hymen until he felt it weakening. Sansa bit her lip; she knew what was coming. With one final shove, her hymen broke and Daveth slid further into her.

"Daveth!" Sansa shouted and winced from the pain, feeling the trickle of blood through the crease of her buttocks and onto the bedsheets as her walls tightly constricted Daveth's manhood. Her maidenhead was gone. She was no longer a virgin. Their marriage was therefore officially consummated.

Daveth groaned loudly as he felt heat enveloping around his manhood, sending pleasure shooting throughout his body. His adrenaline wore off as soon as he felt Sansa digging her nails deep into his flesh and clawing his back. He looked at Sansa and noticed her eyes were shut tightly and tears were welling up. The Young Stag knew his bride was in pain.

"Sansa…" he groaned.

"It-it hurts," she cried.

The Young Stag raised a hand to brush Sansa's tears aside with his thumbs and held her close, listening to her small, quiet sobs. Placing one kiss on her cheek, he watched as her grip on his shoulders and backside slowly loosen, withdrawing her nails from flesh as a few reddened scratches had slowly begun to be more visible. Sansa's breathing still shuddered and shook as she took a moment to adjust, still in pain.

_'He swore he would never hurt me,'_  she gritted through her teeth.  _'He promised no harm would come to me.'_

"Sansa?"

Sansa slowly opened her eyes and looked up to see Daveth staring down at her. She brought a hand to his cheek and gently caressed his skin. "I… I'll be fine, my King. Just… give me a moment," she whimpered waiting for the pain to subside. "Go slow. Please."

Daveth complied with her request, and began to move. His thrusts were slow and attentive which allowed a soft groan and grunt to escape from Sansa. Her face scrunched with a small mixture of pain, but with each movement Daveth took, Sansa started to show signs of comfort and wrapped her arms around his neck.

"B-By the Gods..." she whimpered.

Daveth leaned and claimed Sansa's mouth hungrily, his urges consuming him. He grabbed Sansa's hips and increased his pace a bit and pumped into her. As their tongues wrestled in each other's mouths, Sansa's face contorted into pleasure, as the pain faded further and further away. Her husband was making love to her; two hearts, minds, bodies and souls were connected and became one.

"Sansa… I love you, Sansa," Daveth murmured; small beads of sweat beginning to form across his brow as he buried himself deep within her.

"I love you too," Sansa panted. "I love you!"

For a few long minutes, which felt like an eternity, Sansa slightly muffled her gasps, cries, whimpers and moans – guaranteeing that only Daveth heard every sound she was making. Soon enough she began rocking her hips in a rather hypnotic motion, which drove Daveth crazy. Once he was certain that she was comfortable now, Daveth's thrusts became faster and harder. Flesh slapped against flesh as their hips met. Stag and wolf. Baratheon and Stark. The fruition of the late Robert Baratheon had been realized at the hands of his eldest son and Eddard Stark's daughter. Daveth continued pounding into his wife, never breaking eye-contact and their noses just barely touching. He moves just to see Sansa contorted in pleasure, to hear her exquisite cries and to watch her eyes as he takes her make her look all the more ravishing. It is only her beautiful cries, his own grunts, skin slapping against skin and the sinfully delicious wet sounds coming from her that fill the room. He is getting close now and so is she from the way her voice has risen in both volume and pitch.

"When you become King, you will have to marry. Do you understand why?" he heard Tywin's voice in his head again. "To further the family line and create a powerful dynasty. The blood of the lion flows through your veins, and maybe the path you choose to walk will perhaps overtake the Targaryens. Never forget your duties as a Baratheon and a Lannister and always perform when duty demands it."

All his life, Daveth took each lesson to heart to better himself as a person and to cement his House's legacy. His grandfather, Jon Arryn, Ned Stark… all counseled him and he's always done his duty. The one thing left was to expect his Queen to give him an heir or two. Yet this bond Daveth and Sansa built meant a lot more to them since the day they first met at Winterfell years ago. And Daveth put a lot on the line to ensure Sansa would not be manipulated by those he grew up with. Sansa was lost in the moment, a wave of orgasm having washed over her again and again. Exhausted as she was, the Wolf Queen felt Daveth's manhood starting to swell and twitch inside her as he quickened his pace. She knew what was coming; he would spill his seed inside her and she would birth princes and princesses should fate proved kind enough.

"I'm close, Sansa," he hissed when he pounded into her particularly hard. "I-I'm—"

"Come within me, Daveth. I-It's okay. C-claim me."

Whether it is the desperation in her voice, or the way she rises and falls like the swell of the sea, or how Sansa wrapped her legs around his hips, her insides clenching around him as she shook and rode out another orgasm. Finally reaching the peak of his limits, Daveth let out a low groan as he pinned her down and gave one deep thrust before finally spilling his seed directly inside of Sansa's fertile young womb, his movements erratic and fierce. Feeling spent, exhaustion soon enough caused Daveth to slowly collapse on top of Sansa, burying his face into her neck. Sansa's eyes widened, moaning as she felt his seed flowing within her. Her body shook, her toes curled... and her loins ached from the urgency of their first lovemaking, but it was a good one nonetheless. She grunted and began patting Daveth's shoulder to get his attention.

"My love," her voice strained under his weight, "you're crushing me."

Daveth found enough strength in his arms to lift himself up and withdrew from Sansa with a wet "pop" sound. He kept one arm wrapped around her slender, delicate form protectively as Daveth rolled off to the side. Both were completely exhausted and sore, beads of sweat drenched their skin. The Young Stag drew Sansa closer and she rested her head atop his bare torso, wiping the sweat from her brow and taking a moment to fix her messy hair. He brought up blankets around their rapidly cooling bodies and looked at his tired wife, moving small strands of her hair away from her face and rubbing his hand up and down her bare back with a kind of gentleness he had never known before.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked wearily.

Sansa shook her head just as wearily. "No, my King. You were sweet and attentive."

Daveth chuckled lightly. "Thanks for the vote of confidence, my Queen."

"You're very much welcome, King Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name," Sansa laughed.

Daveth found the remark rather amusing. "Feels weird hearing you say that. Does 'Queen Sansa' sound strange to you?"

"Not as strange as you might think… Husband."

"Wife."

Both found themselves laughing as they exchanged words, each vying to humorously outwit the other.

"You think I might give you a child after… what we just did?" Sansa asks, soothing like water. There is no worry there, no fear, no hesitation.

"Even if it's not this night, there's still time," Daveth answered, moving his right hand to tickle his wife's bare stomach. "Plenty of time in the world before we have sons and daughters."

Sansa rolled her eyes amusingly and swatted his hand away. "Watch yourself, my King. Do not be such a pervert."

Daveth kissed Sansa's forehead and the Wolf Queen snuggled against him, wanting to enjoy the woman had has loved him this night, whom he had grown to love back. "Thank you," he whispered.

Sansa blinked and looked up at Daveth, looking wonderingly into his blue eyes—knowing that there was something in the way he spoke. Now she was curious. "What for?" she asked sleepily.

Daveth turned his head to face her. "This," he spoke as he wrapped his fingers in hers. "I've never told anyone what happened at Lannisport. How what happened there changed me. From then I've never trusted anyone, never allowed myself to get close to anyone. I resigned myself to the fact that what I want doesn't matter. But…"

"'But'…?"

"Being here now, with you… I think I know what it is I've been looking for. This night, our night, means so much more. I think that after all my wandering, I'm finally home. This is where I belong. With you."

Sansa felt her heart race. She was so touched that Daveth was now finally able to fully open himself up to her like this. He only told her much about his past life before they met, now she felt there was no more secrets to hide. Sansa watched as her husband Daveth slowly drifted to sleep as if a huge weight was lifted off his shoulders for so many years. As sleep began to wear over her, Sansa blew out the candles and pulled the bedsheets over her and her husband, curling herself up against him.

"I am yours, Daveth," she whispered as she fell asleep. "Now and always…"

* * *

**Somewhere at the Neck…**

* * *

The ruined collection of towers of Moat Cailin had not been permanently manned for centuries, save a garrison of 300 Northmen keeping watch of movements south of the Neck near the borders to the North. The towers are arranged in mutually defensive positions, suggesting the heightened tactical awareness of the builders. Subsequently, it is neither a fief nor a residence of any lord, but is still the lynch-pin of the defense of the North from any invasion from the south.

"How long do you think the Young Wolf's gonna be at the capital?" the first guardsmen asked another.

The second shook his head. "I dunno," he responds. "But we've got our orders. Hold Moat Cailin and ensure no trouble comes our way."

"Sounds kinda fishy if you ask me."

"I know, but orders are orders. I'd rather not face the Young Wolf's pet. Uhhh… what was the beast's name again? Grey something?"

"Grey Whirl?"

"No, no, no. I think it was Grey Whom or something."

As the two talked back and forth, off in the distance they saw one of the torches lit up rather hastily than usual. Before long it was only a moment they saw a few boats inching closer towards them. They got larger as more came into view and were recognized as warships.

"What's that?" the second one guardsman narrowed his eyes.

The first Northern guardsman looked, and looked at the sails. "It's… All hands! To arms! All of you, gather weapons!"

There was no time for warning as the fortress started getting bombarded with flaming boulders launched from catapults and trebuchets, soldiers and volunteers being hurled in every direction. They were under attack, but one was able to get back to his feet and call a nearby scout.

"Send word to Winterfell!" he shouted. "Tell them the ironborn are attacking! Be sure to send a raven to King's Landing too!"

The scout nodded and ran as fast as he legs could carry him as the invasion intensified. A boarding party landed from the Blazewater Bay and scoured atop Moat Cailin. Once inside, the ironborn shouted in excitement.

"Time to die!" one of them shouted as the battle had begun.

Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, stood atop one of the Northmen's corpse and wielded his battle-axe in the air.

"Victory for the Iron Islands!" he bellowed. "Victory for King Balon of House Greyjoy!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, here we go. The deed's been done. A certain steamy bit I didn't think I'd include. House Baratheon and House Stark are bound by blood and the people of Westeros get a new Queen; and a bit of steamy stuff between the newlyweds. However, there is a certain someone who still remains bitter and somewhat hostile. Guess who that might be? Nah, don't answer that. That much is obvious. Normally I'm not good at writing a scene like this so forgive me if I'm a little sloppy at it. The next chapter I'll write will kick-off the second declaration of war in which Daveth Baratheon himself will personally take to the battlefield again. Thoughts at to what'll come next as Baratheon and Greyjoy clash swords again? Let me know.


	40. Call the Banners! We're Going to War!

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

It was a bright, sunny morning. King Daveth stretched his arms and groaned as he moved to wake himself up from his slumber. He was a married man now, but even then the Oathkeeper still had to tend to his royal duties. Before doing so, however, Daveth had to tend attend a special session of his Small Council. There were two vacancies that needed to be filled and he had his grandfather Lord Hand Tywin Lannister to assemble the candidates he suggested. Climbing the stairs, he arrived at the new Small Council chambers in the Tower of the Hand. Daveth scoured the room to see Grand Maester Pycelle, Varys, his uncle Tyrion Lannister, Ser Barristan Selmy… and the two candidates to fill in the vacancies. To his right stood Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill; it had been sometime since a Reachmen of his status even set foot in the Red Keep and when Lord Tarly received an invitation, Randyll complied with the summons. Finally, to his left sat Prince Oberyn Martell who had both of his feet prompted atop the desk.

"Your Grace," they all greeted.

Daveth gave a brief nod in acknowledgment. "Thank you all for coming on such short notice, my lords. This meeting of the Small Council will officially begin once the Hand of the King arrives."

"These meetings aren't always going to be this early are they?" Oberyn asked rather bored if not a bit tired. "I was up late last night."

"If the King or his Hand calls upon us, then surely it must be something of utmost importance," explained Ser Barristan.

"And you're all just content with this?"

"Believe me, certain occasions like this always tends to make my head spin. I never enjoyed discussing politics, but King Daveth has 'insisted' that my presence was needed."

Oberyn sighed. "So, does this mean I am a master of something now? Coins? Ships…?"

"We will be getting to that momentarily," Randyll interrupted gruffly. The animosity between the Reach and Dorne going back centuries were still present among both sides. "But until then you'd to best to—"

All talks subsided when Tywin Lannister entered the room and sat at his assigned seat next to his grandson. "We are here to discuss the appointments the King has recommended, so this needs to be done," the Old Lion coolly announced as he turned to his grandson.

Daveth nodded and cleared his throat. "For some time there have been two vacancies on this council, positions that are considered of great importance in advising the crown. The search for suitable replacements was painstakingly long, my lords. But know that each of you assembled carry with you a particular talent. After much thought and careful consideration, I believe I found two worthy candidates for this cabinet who carry such talent suited for the rolls I bestow upon them."

With that, Daveth first turned his attention towards Randyll. "Lord Randyll Tarly," he begun. The old Lord of Horn Hill stood tall and proud in his seat, his face showing no emotions. "You are one the finest military commanders Westeros has ever produced, the only man to defeat my father Robert Baratheon and my uncle Ser Jaime Lannister in battle as no one else ever has. Your prowess in warfare is perhaps unparalleled. As such, it is with great privilege that I name you the new Master of Ships."

Randyll nodded in acknowledgement. "Very well. All I have to offer is hereby at the crown's disposal, Your Grace."

Daveth nodded and turned to Oberyn. "Prince Oberyn."

"Yes?"

"In light of your… ahem, strive to right wrongs, to ensure a tough but fair justice system, it would please the crown if you were to serve as Master of Laws."

"Sounds like it's quite an offer, Oathkeeper. I wasn't made aware that you had such respect for Dorne. Does this mean I can lop off criminals' heads now?" he half-joked, raising an eyebrow.

"No, that job's normally reserved for the King's Justice Ser Ilyn Payne," the Young Stag explained. "Although you do get to supervise the King's Justice, manage the Red Keep's dungeons and advise the crown on legal matters; even the City Watch is presumably under the bailiwick of the Master of Laws. Surely a man of your reputation is up for the task?"

Oberyn groaned and waived a hand. "Fine, I'll take it."

Tywin noted the appointments and studied his grandson closely. Even though he is ruthless nor does he trust any of the Great Houses apart from his own, Tywin does recognize it as necessary to make some concessions to House Martell and Dorne in general so as to reunify the realm because deep down even the Old Lion himself knows that one day Daenerys Targaryen will turn her eyes to Westeros and seek to reclaim the Iron Throne for her family, and the last time dragons assaulted Westeros, only Dorne stood against them.

"Now that the first item on the agenda has been resolved," Tywin cleared his throat, "what else do we have?"

Varys spoke up. "Any or all contact my little birds might have with the North has gone silent overnight, my lord."

Pycelle raised his eyebrows suspiciously. "What do you mean by 'gone silent'?"

"My little birds tell me that there has been suspicious activity going on up there, but as of right now we are left in the dark. I must regret that not even I—"

All talks were rudely interrupted when the royal steward barged into the room, flinging the doors wide open. He panted heavily and took a moment to catch his breath.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?" Randyll scowled.

The royal steward gave a quick curtsey. "*pant* My lords! *pant* Your Grace! *pant, pant* I bring news! Terrible news!"

"Slow down, man! What news?" inquired Tyrion rather curiously.

"Balon Greyjoy and the— *pant* and the Iron Islands are in open rebellion! *pant* They've attacked the Neck and have taken Moat Cailin!"

The room filled with silence. All eyes were glued to the royal steward as he relayed the news of Balon Greyjoy's second rebellion taking place and that Moat Cailin was under ironborn occupation, meaning armies from the North cannot march south nor could the southern armies march upward. The ironborn were out in force and delivered the first blow. But there was something else that snapped the Small Council's attention. Before them, King Daveth I Baratheon slowly tightened his grip on his seat so hard until his knuckles turned white. Quiet inhales through his nose were sharply exhaled as the Young Stag's face turned purple. Tyrion watched his nephew's silent rage coming to the surface, and with the expression he was giving it looked as if he would erupt at any second – but it also brought up old, long suppressed memories to the surface all at once.

The Imp looked into Daveth's blue eyes as he knew the young man had remembered the raid of Lannisport all too well.

> **ooOoo**
> 
> _The city of Lannisport (11 years ago)…_
> 
> __
> 
> _The port city was on fire. Screams were heard as the Lannister fleet was repeatedly bombarded by the Iron Fleet. The ironborn seized the opportunity to raid the city, killing anyone they could see and taking captives as their thralls, all while laughing manically at the pursuit of their Old Way customs._
> 
> _"Mother! Father! Where are you?!" shouted a young 8-year-old Crown Prince Daveth Baratheon, who wandered aimlessly through the streets with his friends as they moved to avoid falling, flaming debris._
> 
> _"There's too many of them!" shouted Darnis Swyft, one of Daveth's friends and distant relative of Ser Harys Swyft._
> 
> _"What are we going to do?!" exclaimed another of Daveth's friends, Culler, a stableboy. "We-we can't outrun them all!"_
> 
> _"Our only hope is to get to safety!" pointed out Alrah, another of Daveth's friends and a squire to one of Tywin Lannister's bannermen's sons. "Quickly! We have to go! Now!"_
> 
> _But before the children could run, more falling debris had impeded their path. They turned to find another route, but in the chaos they found themselves cut off._
> 
> _"We're trapped!" Culler shouted fearfully._
> 
> _"Well, well, well. Look what we have here, boys!" shouted one of the ironborn._
> 
> __  
>   
> 
> 
> _The children all turned to look at their pursuers. The ironborn were cackling and brandished their sharp blades, each of them licking their lips as their victims found their backs pressed against the wall. Their leader, pale skin with dark brown hair, grinned wickedly as he held his two-handed battleaxe. Euron Greyjoy, his men called him._
> 
> _"Fitting tributes to the Drowned God, wouldn't you say?" Euron laughed sadistically. "Or… to me since I am the Drowned God?"_
> 
> _That drew more laughter from his men. The boys stood terrified._
> 
> _"Why… why are you doing this?" Darnis quivered._
> 
> _Culler bit his lip as it trembled. Daveth was equally terrified as his friends were. But Euron gave no reply as he signaled his men._
> 
> _"Take them back to the Iron Islands as thralls if you must, but feel free to kill the little bastards should they put up a fight."_
> 
> _Alrah was quick to protest. "Wait! Wait—!"_
> 
> _His protests were quickly silenced as Euron cleaved him in two, blood splattering everywhere – some of which landed on Daveth's cheeks as he witnessed Darnis and Culler being butchered before his very eyes. The 8-year-old Baratheon trembled in fear as Euron Greyjoy continued grinning wickedly. He and his men looked down at the frightened pup._
> 
> _"This one's a worthy prize," Euron told his men. "We'll take him back with us to the Iron Islands. We'll be having lots of fun!"_
> 
> _One of the ironborn grabbed Daveth's arm and the boy struggled against their firm grip as they brought him to one of their longships._
> 
> _"No! Let go of me! You can't do this! Let me go! LET ME GO!" he screamed._
> 
> _Euron and the ironborn cackled as they threw Daveth into one of their cages and set sail, witnessing the burning Lannister fleet sink to the bottom of the ocean. From there, it was when his torment first begun._
> 
> **ooOoo**

Tyrion was getting increasingly worried about his nephew's state of mind. Just then, at what felt like an eternity, Daveth finally spoke up.

"I beg your pardon, but I did not seem to hear you," Daveth whispered menacingly. "Could you repeat that to me one more time?"

The royal steward gulped as he noticed the tone of the King's voice. "The ironborn have… taken Moat Cailin—"

***SLAM!***

He didn't even have enough time to reiterate his report as Daveth slammed the table with both hands hard and shot up from his seat so fast the chair rocked backward before falling back into place. The Young Stag's advisors were apparently disturbed at this sudden display, save for Tywin Lannister and Randyll Tarly.

"Grand Maester," Daveth's voice boomed throughout the room, "send word to every corner of the realm, from the Arbor to the Wall. The rest of you begin preparing for war. Now."

"Your Grace—" Pycelle tried to speak.

"I SAID NOW!" he roared.

The elderly maester hastily hurried out of the room to send a raven to all the high lords of Westeros of the explicit command of their King to call their respective bannermen. The others remained seated as they examined Daveth storming out of the Tower of the Hand to prepare himself for battle. Tyrion watched with worry, with Varys lowering his head mournfully. Randyll was permitted to return to Horn Hill to assemble his troops. Oberyn, meanwhile, was rather curious at the recent events unravelling before him.

"The meeting of the Small Council is postponed," Tywin said coolly. "We will discuss the matter at a later date until this rebellion is dealt with."

The royal councilors were dismissed, leaving Tyrion, Varys and Oberyn alone in the Tower of the Hand.

_'Daveth, please don't let your rage consume you,'_  Tyrion thoughtfully pleaded.  _'The realm needs you. Myrcella and Tommen need you, I need you… Sansa needs you.'_

* * *

**Somewhere near Riverrun…**

* * *

Near the ancestral Tully stronghold, a Northern lord and his bannermen were marching up the Kingsroad. Their sigils stood high, a red flayed man hanging upside-down on a white X-shaped cross on a black field. Lord Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and one of Lord Robb Stark's top generals, had been marching from Harrenhal with his men to attend his liege lord's wedding to Talisa Maegyr—but by the time he had arrived, the ceremony was over. But that was not the reason for his arrival. In his hand was a rolled up piece of paper, the seal of Winterfell remaining intact. He had received one earlier with a waxed-seal from the Dreadfort as well.

Upon their arrival, Roose dismounted from his horse and marched towards Riverrun with his man-at-arms Locke to deliver the news. What felt like hours scouring through the halls, Roose finds Robb, Talisa, Catelyn, Lord Edmure Tully and the Blackfish along with most of the Northern host around the fire within the Great Hall enjoying themselves.

     
   

"Lord Bolton," Lord Greatjon Umber greeted in a bellowed laughter. "I fear you have missed the ceremony!"

Roose gave no expression. "My apologies for being late, Lord Stark, but that's not the reason why I am here."

Robb's cheerful look soon turned serious. Something was wrong. The Lord of the Dreadfort decided it was best to present Robb with the rolled message.

"What is it?" the Young Wolf asked.

"News from Winterfell," Roose stated plainly.

Robb took the parchment from Roose and broke the seal and begun unwrapping it to see what the message entailed. His bride, Talisa, looked over his shoulder to see what could possibly trouble her husband. Robb Stark examined the note carefully, before a hangdog look on his face washed over him.

"This cannot be true…" Robb murmured dreadfully.

"We've had ravens coming in from White Harbor, Barrowtown and the Dreadfort, my lord," Roose informed the Young Wolf, his arms crossed in front of him. "Balon Greyjoy has attacked the North, seizing Moat Cailin and trapping our armies south of the Neck."

Robb began to pace as his bannermen shouted and cursed. Grey Wind's head rose in the sudden commotion.

"Recently… another raven arrived from King's Landing not long after," he continued. "King Daveth Baratheon is calling on all the high lords of Westeros to gather their forces for battle."

"Treasonous whores!" Greatjon Umber bellowed, slamming one hand against the wall. "They'll rue the day they decided to attack us!"

Lord Rickard Karstark appeared to agree. "Balon Greyjoy will pay for this outrage!"

Robb's hands were starting to shake. "What about my brothers?" he asked.

Roose shook his head. "We received no word from them lately."

Catelyn's jaw clenched. "And what of Theon?"

"We don't know, my lady. But you can never trust a Greyjoy for long—"

"I must go north at once."

Robb stood so quickly that he nearly knocked over one of the servant maids, causing Grey Wind to hop to his feet.

"Our armies are stuck below the Neck, my lord," Roose reminded Robb.

"How can I call myself Warden of the North if I can't defend it?" the Young Wolf got right in his face, veins pulsing in his neck. "How can I ask my own men to follow me if I can't—?!"

"You  _are_  Warden of the North!" the Lord of the Dreadfort interrupted. "But that doesn't mean you have to do everything yourself. Let me send word to my bastard son at the Dreadfort. He can raise a small scouting party to investigate before the new moon. For us to get back north now, we will need ships. The King's own uncle Lord Stannis has more than 200 at his disposal. Go to King's Landing, convince your brother-in-law to lend us his ships."

Robb's eyes flickered. "If Theon has betrayed me…" his shook his head. His voice was soft, but was filled in anger at the ironborn's act of provocation. "I'll force some answers out of him."

Roose nodded and took his leave. Once Bolton left, Robb turned to his men.

"My lords, our time of leisure is over. Our home is under siege. Let's push Balon Greyjoy and his men out of the North!"

The soldiers of Houses Umber, Glover, Karstark, Bolton, Mormont and attendees of the Riverlands rallied to Robb Stark's call to arms. As they prepared themselves for the inevitable march, Robb had already begun making preparations to head to King's Landing to ask for Daveth's ships.

_'Gods hear me,'_  Robb prayed in deep thought to himself.  _'Please do not let the ironborn reach Winterfell. Spare my brothers. Please.'_ His mind raced with unimaginable images of what devastation awaited him back in the North, but his thoughts soon changed from his two younger brothers and subjects at Winterfell to Theon Greyjoy.  _'_ _You'd better have a good explanation for this, Theon. I will never forgive you if you've truly turned traitor!'_

* * *

**At Deepwood Motte…**

* * *

Yara Greyjoy had strolled around the fortress of Deepwood Motte, having captured it from House Glover and House Woods rather easily. Of the raiding party she took with her, Yara's side experienced minimal losses as the Glover garrison was utterly wiped out. Robett Glover had been clapped in irons, his wife and children tossed into prison as the ironborn brutalized and terrorized House Glover's ancestral lands.

 

"You fuckin' bitch!" Robett cursed.

Yara finished sipping a goblet of ale. "Aww, poor Greenlander," she mocked. "Sad that you were taken completely by surprise? Ha! Such a shame. I expected much from you."

The acting Lord of Deepwood Motte tried to rush her, but his chains held him down. Yara simply ignored Robett and took a bite of a piece of bacon and bread. Still something bothered her. Where was her brother? Where was Theon? Yara had given her last surviving brother to take part of the ironborn's traditions, but Theon continued protesting the notion that the Old Way would only bring about the demise of House Greyjoy, the Iron Islands… their way of life. Deep down, Yara felt conflicted about where her youngest brother's loyalties actually lie. But she couldn't let such thoughts disturb her from her victory.

"When I get out of these chains, you ironborn will face the consequences!" Robett continued spewing his threats.

Yara was soon getting bored. "Lock him and his family at Ten Towers on Harlaw," she commanded men.

The ironborn guard nodded and dragged Robett to his feet and out of the main hall.

"This isn't over, ironborn bitch! You hear me?! This isn't over!"

Yara sighed in relief when she heard the doors slammed shut behind her. She had secured the Iron Islands a base of operations for their invasion of the North, yet still close to tidal flats near the Bay of Ice just in case of a quick getaway. But that was plan B. She wiped the ale and grease from her mouth with her sleeve and stood up, looking out the window. "Little brother," Yara pondered as if her feelings were hurt, "why didn't you come with me?"

Such questions only remained unsaid. The Second Greyjoy Rebellion had begun, and the ironborn had already taken control of Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte. "We Do Not Sow" are the words of House Greyjoy, reaving and plundering was their traditional way of life to sustain themselves back on the Iron Islands. To them, there was no other way. But even someone like Yara did have her doubts. Regardless, Yara stood firm and ready, willing to pay the iron price for as long as her body still drew breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oathkeeper erupts in fury and once he learned of Balon Greyjoy's second rebellion he was sent over the edge! His anger was like no man had ever seen before! The call has been sent, and armies will begin to mobilize against the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. The first phase would be the initial reaction of people learning about the ironborn attack on Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte. Baratheon and Stark reactions are rather different than others. What do you guys think? Thoughts? Let me know.


	41. Onward to the Battlefield

* * *

**At the Red Keep's Great Hall…**

* * *

Sansa Stark ran through the halls of the Red Keep, searching from room to room. She had just received word of Balon Greyjoy's rebellion… and news of King Daveth Baratheon's "eruption", the Wolf Queen's heart pounded in fear and worry for her husband. Sansa held up the front end of her dress to avoid tripping herself; her new attire was a black dress with a subtle texture resembling tree bark adorned with rows of raven feathers around the best of her dress and sleeve cuffs and wore a chain pendant necklace along with two silver penchants entailing both the sigils of House Stark and House Baratheon. And around her arm Sansa carried a light blue silk flowing in the breeze as she ran.

Exhausted from her search, Sansa soon found Daveth standing over a detailed map of Westeros painted onto the floor, speaking with three of his Kingsguard knights Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Jaime Lannister along with soldiers of the Baratheon and Lannister garrison. King Daveth was already in full armor and his Valyrian sword Stormbringer was at his side.

"With Moat Cailin under ironborn occupation, our allies in the North are unable to march south of the Neck nor are they able to turn back," Ser Barristan examined the map beneath his feet. "With any luck, Lord Stannis should be arriving at any moment."

"Provided of course that he's received your message, Your Grace," Ser Lucius gave a small hum. "Randyll might be Master of Ships, but most of the Royal Fleet is still loyal to your uncle. Do you think they'll listen?"

Daveth scoffed. "The captains are well-aware of what'll happen if they don't. Even Stannis himself knows that. What of our forces here?"

"Our men in King's Landing are ready for the march to lift the occupation at Moat Cailin," Jaime chimed in. "While that's going on, our troops stationed in the Westerlands will take the Lannister Fleet and sail up the western coast with the Redwyne Fleet to harass the Greyjoy fleet."

"With any luck, our naval forces should keep the ironborn distracted long enough for us on the mainland to rendezvous at Seagard and begin the eventual invasion of the Iron Islands," the Young Stag theorized.

Sansa felt winded as she stopped to catch her breath. "My King," she finally spoke up.

Daveth turned to see his wife bearing a worried look on her face.

"Your Grace," the Kingsguard greeted.

The King himself simply stood motionless before returning his gaze to the Kingsguard and his soldiers.

"Give me a moment to speak with my wife," he ordered. "Have the men ready to march. We ride at nightfall."

All bowed their heads in acknowledgement and left the Red Keep to gather the troops necessary for the war against the Iron Islands. Once the Kingsguard and Baratheon and Lannister soldiers were absent, Daveth was left alone with Sansa.

 

"What is it, Sansa? I'm a little busy here," Daveth began. His voice was slightly irritated.

Sansa flinched slightly. "Lord Tyrion informed me you plan to take to the field. Please tell me what your uncle said is not true. Please tell me that you are not seriously planning on going with them…" she beseeched.

"I am. What of it?"

The Wolf Queen swore she felt her heart sink. Her husband had already informed her of what had occurred at Lannisport with the ironborn during their courtship, but Sansa was not aware of how deep his hatred for the ironborn was. She feared for his safety when the King eventually leaves to fight on the battlefield, of course, but Sansa is more worried about his mental state as well. Daveth was starting to show subtle signs that he was walking a thin moral line when the topic of House Greyjoy and ironborn came up; but should the noble Oathkeeper ever decide to cross the line… he would be lost to his inner demons.

"Daveth," Sansa spoke softly as she tried to pick her words cautiously, "please reconsider. Do not do this. The last time you rode off to battle, you almost lost an eye as well as your life. You could have gotten yourself killed. Let someone else take charge and handle Lord Balon's uprising. Please stay here in the capital with me. Don't leave me again."

The Young Stag hadn't forgotten the Battle of Blackwater Bay, where he received his noticeable scar from Loras Tyrell's blade—and the casualties that came with it. Daveth symbolized his own wounds as a way of accepting the path he has taken and his resolve to push forward as long as he possibly could. Regardless, Daveth refused to be swayed.

"You would have me sit here and do nothing then? Do nothing and allow such treason to go unpunished?"

Sansa shook her head. "No, husband. I know Balon must be punished for his crimes, but my heart aches at the thought of you being hurt or worse," she reached her hand and placed a gentle palm on Daveth's shoulders. "Which is why I am asking you, please find it in your heart and do me this kindness. Don't go. Please."

Daveth looked at Sansa. She was on the verge of dropping to her knees as her lower lip trembled slightly. The more Sansa heard of Daveth's determination of fighting on the battlefield again, the discontent she felt. Normally on his regular days the Young Stag would hold his wife close and tell her everything is going to be all right, that all would be right as rain; but this was a time of war. No matter how much he might want to, Daveth couldn't afford to be distracted. Sighing, he slowly pried himself off of her.

"Your sweet words move me, Sansa," he firmly told her. "But my decision is final. I'm going, and I will  _have my due_. On that, you have my word."

Now certain of his answer, Sansa reluctantly released her grip on Daveth and lowered her head in defeat. No matter how many times she pleaded, or even cried, her husband would not budge an inch. Not even for her. Not when the Greyjoys are in open rebellion for the second time. Daveth didn't like saying no to Sansa, but his vendetta against House Greyjoy and the ironborn seemingly outweighed that. Perhaps when this is all over, he'll apologize to her; seems about fair. But before Daveth could even leave the Red Keep, Sansa called out to him again.

"Daveth, wait!"

Daveth turned to watch Sansa approaching him, unravelling the blue silk as she begun to wrap it around his neck. He initially raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but the Young Stag was able to recognize the blue silk: it was the same scarf Sansa gave him during the Hand's Tourney two years ago, but more defined and elegant! Once Sansa was done wrapping the scarf around Daveth's neck, she took a brief moment to look at him. Still upset, but did her duty as his wife regardless.

"If you are certain in your decision," she said, "then come back home to me."

Daveth gave a small nod. "Then wait for me, little dove," he answered her. "Wait for me, and I will return to you."

Sansa bit her lip as she watched Daveth leave the Red Keep, lowering her head as she turned to walk back inside. The King, meanwhile, was on his way to catch up with his soldiers when Robb and Catelyn Stark arrived in King's Landing along with most of the Northern troops and approached him directly.

 

"Your Grace," greeted Catelyn.

"Daveth," greeted Robb.

Daveth gave a curt nod. "Somehow I knew you would find your way here," he said.

Robb was a bit disturbed by his friend/brother-in-law's tone, but ignored it. "My apologies for not sending word sooner," the Young Wolf stated, "but I've come to petition the use of your ships."

Catelyn chimed in. "We know of the situation with the ironborn, with Balon Greyjoy. With Moat Cailin under their control Robb and his men cannot move north past the Neck. With your blessing, we would like to borrow the use of your ships."

Robb took a moment to explain. "I need them to transport my men stationed here towards the nearest port, White Harbor."

"I'm well aware of your situation, Robb. I'm aware that you are in need my ships so you and your men could go home. But I do find it rather odd to not see Theon with you. You do remember the condition that was made years ago should the traitor Balon Greyjoy try anything again, don't you?"

"Theon isn't like his father!" Robb started to raise his voice. He hadn't meant to, but that was certain to arouse suspicion. "Daveth, we can talk about this another time. Now is not the appropriate time for debate. I did not come here to argue with you. For the sake of our friendship, I need your help."

"Robb is your brother by law," Catelyn reminded the King. "Our two houses have always been close and are now bound by blood. Please, Your Grace, we would not ask you for anything unless it was of utmost importance."

Daveth looked at Robb and Catelyn, saying nothing. There was a brief moment of pause. What felt like an hour had passed before Daveth raised a hand and pointed towards the harbor. Robb, Catelyn and the other Northmen turned to see several ships arriving near the docks.

"I'll have the Royal Fleet will move you and your men to White Harbor; 200 ships, plus an additional 28 vessels to provide support by sea. Gather what resources you have and climb onboard. Lord Stannis will be expecting you."

"We won't forget this, lad," Greatjon Umber bellowed rambunctiously.

Rickard Karstark nodded in agreement. "The North remembers."

"The North remembers," the others echoed.

Robb and his bannermen have begun marching their soldiers and supply line through the streets of King's Landing, with several onlookers watching them in awe and amazement. Before the last Northmen left, Daveth turned to Catelyn.

"While we are off to war, I would like you to remain in the Red Keep with Sansa," Daveth asked her. "She needs you now more than ever."

Catelyn dismounted and looked at her son-in-law. "Both my late husband and your father rode off to war twice. Once was against the Mad King, the other against the same man you now seek to put down. And now you're making my daughter go through that as I had to?"

"Not by choice. This simply needs to be done. Besides, Sansa's grown rather strong and capable these last two years."

"Who do you have assigned to protect her?" she asked.

"I've assigned Brienne of Tarth and Ariyana Dayne as her sworn shields. They are more than capable of guarding Sansa from any who would mean to harm her. But Sansa will need you for the time being until Robb and I get back," he answered. "In my absence, Lord Tywin will govern the city in my stead."

"And the promise you made to my late husband?" Catelyn pressed.

"I know what I said," Daveth swore he felt his lips almost curling into a snarl. "I remember the promise I made to Ned Stark that day as he laid dying on his deathbed, that I would protect Sansa with my life. I intend to keep that promise."

"And how is putting your life on the line again proving that you are protecting my daughter?"

"Doesn't matter what I call it, mother-in-law," he turned away before giving a backwards glance at Catelyn. "And one more thing… you will  _not_  invoke Ned Stark's memory to use as a weapon against me again. Is that clear? It is far beneath a highborn woman of your stature… considering our blood ties."

Catelyn said nothing as she watched her son-in-law ride away with his men. The Stark matriarch simply turned around and marched towards the gates of the Red Keep to tend to her daughter.

_'Gods, bring those boys home in one piece,'_  she prayed.  _'They are simply too young to be marching off on their own like this.'_

* * *

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

"I already told you I am not abandoning my home or my people while Balon Greyjoy invades our ancestral lands," replied Bran Stark as Hodor carried him around the courtyard.

Jojen Reed simply kept up the pace with them. "If you do not come with us, then it won't be all of the North that is in danger but all of Westeros will be buried beneath the cold."

"We came all this way from Greywater Watch to find you," insisted a rather annoyed Meera. "To refuse us would be a detrimental insult. Not just to us, but to the Three-Eyed Raven himself."

"He knows you have this hidden power, Bran," Jojen professed. "The dreams, visions of things to come…"

  

Bran looked to argue, when an unexpected guest came through the doors. Summer growled a bit as Bran, Hodor, Osha, Jojen and Meera turned to see a rather familiar face.

"I thought I'd be able to catch up with you, little lord."

"Theon?" Bran said surprised.

In a stroke of fortune, Theon Greyjoy had managed to elude his father's grasp and avoid detection from the ironborn. He had taken a huge risk coming to Winterfell or even any section in the North for that matter. Every noble house in the North plus the Crannogmen in the Neck are already putting up fierce resistance against the ironborn; most of the Northern forces are stretched a bit thin as calls for reinforcements were sent daily. Should anyone in the North ever spot an ironborn, most noticeably Theon, they were to be attacked on sight.

"Your father invaded our home. Took Moat Cailin, pillaged our homes, raped countless women," Meera pointed a wooden spear at his face. "Why should we even allow you entry into this stronghold? Give me one reason why I should let you keep breathing?"

Theon raised a hand up in submission. "I know what you may think of me, of my father, my family, our people and the Iron Island's traditions. But I swear I had no part in my father's schemes! I tried to convince him not to invade, I tried to stop him, I swear!"

"Why should we believe you?" Osha threatened as she pulled out a sharp knife.

"Hodor?" burped Hodor. "Hodor. Hodor!"

"Go away! Go away! Go away!" screamed Rickon.

Meera pointed the tip at Theon's nose. "The deceased Lord Eddard Stark was more of a father to you than yours ever was. He took you into his castle. Fed you, clothed you, given you a descent education… you trained with Robb. He thinks of you as a brother!"

"I know that!"

"And you dare betray his memory?!"

"Who do you think it was who told you of my father's plot?" Theon suggested in an almost desperate shout. "Who was it that sent word to Winterfell? To White Harbor? Or even the Dreadfort for that matter?"

"The raven's scroll detailing a warning… That was you?" Bran asked.

Theon nodded. "I always wanted to do the right thing, be the right kind of person, but I never knew what that meant," he tells Bran. "It's always seemed like… like there was an impossible choice I had to make: Stark or Greyjoy."

"Yet now you made a choice. But… you seem troubled by it."

"Why wouldn't I be troubled? My father rebels against the crown, and I'm dead. Daveth Baratheon and your brother end up being successful in putting an end to it, and I'm dead. Chances are I might end up losing my head anyway. The least I can do is clean up what my family has done."

Bran made a suggestion. "You could take the black, Theon. Join the Night's Watch. No one will be able to touch you there."

"Only for Jon to slit my throat in my sleep," Theon scoffed. "No, little lord. I don't want to take the black. Best that I lessen the damage my father has done, but… but to do that, you'll need to leave Winterfell with these two before it's too late."

The crippled Stark boy couldn't believe what he was hearing. Not only was Theon siding against his own family, but he was also demanding that he, Osha, Hodor, his brother Rickon, Jojen, Meera and the two direwovles Summer and Shaggydog leave Winterfell should the fighting ever come their way.

"Battles mean wars," said Jojen. "If some army should take us unawares…"

Meeren chimed in. "The Wall is still a very long way and Bran has no use of his legs and has to rely on Hodor."

"Bran has need of a teacher wiser than me. Somewhere to the north, the Three-Eyed Raven awaits us. We can't get him to come to us, so we have to go to him. Or… he could show us the way."

Before Meera could find a reply to that, they heard the sound; the distant howl of a wolf, drifting through the night.

"Summer?" asked Jojen, listening.

"No." Bran knew the voice of his direwolf.

"Are you certain?"

"Certain."

Summer had wandered far afield today, and would not be back till dawn. Maybe Jojen dreams green, but he can't tell a wolf from a direwolf. He wondered why they all listened to Jojen so much. He was not an acting lord like Bran, nor big and strong like Hodor, nor as good a hunter as Meera, yet somehow it was always Jojen telling them what to do.

"Teach me," Bran still feared the Three-Eyed Raven who haunted his dreams, pecking endlessly at the skin between his eyes and telling him to fly. "You're a greenseer."

"No," Jojen refused, "only a boy who dreams. The greenseers were more than that. They were wargs as well, as you are, and the greatest of them could wear the skins of any beast that flies or swims or crawls, and could look through the eyes of the weirwoods as well, and see the truth that lies beneath the world."

"Okay, okay, hold up!" Theon interrupted. "Can somebody explain this to me? What the fuck is a 'Three-Eyed Raven'?"

"The last Greenseer, an extraordinarily powerful one with the Sight," Jojen explained. "He was the one who granted me visions and why Bran is important for the war to come."

Theon wasn't sure if he would be able to understand that, so he remained silent. Meera took Bran by the hand.

"If we stay here, troubling no one, you'll be safe until the war ends. You will not learn, though, except what my brother can teach you, and you've heard what he says. You are only a boy, I know, but you are our lord's brother and heir as well until a son is born to him. We have sworn you our faith by earth and water, bronze and iron, ice and fire. The risk is yours, Bran, as is the gift."

Bran tried to think it through, the way his father might have. The Greatjon's uncles Hother Whoresbane and Mors Crowfood were fierce men, but he thought they would be loyal; as are the Karstarks, too. At Winterfell, Hother Whoresbane would laugh a lot, and never seemed to look at Bran with so much pity as the other lords. Castle Cerwyn was closer than White Harbor, but Maester Luwin had said that Cley Cerwyn was with Robb at the moment. As he would be, if he was caught by the ironborn should they ever approach Winterfell, it would mean the end of him. If they stayed here, hidden down beneath Tumbledown Tower, no one would find them. He would stay alive… and crippled.

"You say he wants me to find him. Then take me to him," Bran's voice cracked. No matter where he went, he'd always be a cripple. He balled his hands into fists.

Jojen and Meera nodded in acknowledgement. "We will have to go past Castle Black if we are to find him then."

_'They plan to find this so-called raven beyond the Wall? That's suicide!'_  thought Theon. Even if he didn't understand what they were talking about, any who ventured beyond the Wall risks a slow, cold end. But he knew at least Bran would be protected by his companions at least.

"But Rickon can't come with me."

"No, no, no!" Rickon protested. "I'm coming with you!"

"No," Bran refused. "You and Osha and Shaggydog keep yourselves safe. Our bannermen will protect you."

The youngest Stark still threw a tantrum. "I'm coming with you! I'm your brother! I have to protect you!" he cried, tugging Bran's sleeves.

"Right now I have to protect you as your older brother. Robb and Daveth are at war and I'm going beyond the Wall. If something happens to me, you're the heir to Winterfell."

Rickon cried as Osha held the child close to her, stroking his hair as if the Stark was her own child. The wildling felt her heart ache at Rickon being separated from his family, but she promised to take care of the boy.

"Keep this one safe," Bran asked Osha. "He means the world to me."

Osha nodded. "Don't worry about this one, little lord," she half-heartedly chuckled. "Your family took me in and was good to me without cause." The wildling looked to see Rickon crying on her dress. "Shh! Come here, little soldier," she hushed. "You and me, we're gonna have some adventures. We'll be fine, you and me."

"Come with us, Theon," Bran beseeched.

Theon shook his head. "I have to stay behind. Someone has to keep my family occupied while you find what you seek. Do something to keep myself busy, right?"

Bran sadly lowered his head as Hodor, still carrying the crippled Stark, moved towards the main exit of Winterfell. Osha had to hold Rickon back as the boy reached out crying for his brother. Theon felt a twinge of regret at having been forced into this position. He had been facing with inner turmoil for a great amount of years since arriving at Winterfell as a ward eleven years ago. Whatever decision was made, it had to be done. Theon reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled up scroll and dropped it. As a small breeze moved the scroll, the contents spread apart to allow the message to become more visible.

> _"Robb,_
> 
> _I hope this reaches you in time. My father has rejected the_ _offer and plans to attack the North, raiding the shores and_ _taking Deepwood Motte. You and Daveth mobilize your_ _armies and make for the North before it's too late. I'll write_ _again when I can._
> 
> _Signed,  
>  Theon"_

* * *

**Aboard the _Fury_ …**

* * *

Sailing up the Blackwater Bay and into the Bay of Crabs, Lord Stannis Baratheon stood at the helm of his flagship. He folded his arms as his eyes looked to the horizon, never mind the Northmen roaming around each vessel in the Royal Fleet. Stannis continued his brooding as Greatjon Umber rambled on and on to his first mate Ser Imry Florent while Rickard Karstark spent his time with Robb Stark discussing plans to take back the North from the ironborn whilst Grey Wind shifted his position so the direwolf would remain standing aboard the ship.

Roose Bolton, meanwhile, stood by himself looking across the bay – almost no one could tell what was going through his mind; but whatever the Lord of the Dreadfort was thinking, waiting to receive word from his bastard son. Roose sent the boy on a scouting mission further into western portions of the North and relay any information he found there.

Davos Seaworth, Stannis's trusted advisor, made his way atop the deck. "My lord," he greeted.

Stannis met his gaze. "What is it?" he says curtly.

"All appropriate measurements have been taken for the upcoming war. Rations sorted out, our soldiers are in the best possible position to lay siege."

"Good."

"I… I also extend my sympathies, my lord."

"For what?"

"About your brother," Davos explained. "Even though it's been over a year, I wanted to let you know people still grieve for him."

"What's done is done, Ser Davos. Fools love a fool," Stannis replied briskly. "Still, I grieve for the boy Renly was, not the man he grew to be. He disobeyed his king. Whatever good he made, it does not wash out the bad. You yourself should know that."

"Lord Stannis!" Robb called out.

The Lord of Dragonstone turned to see the young Lord of Winterfell approach him, extending his hand. When Stannis refused to shake his hand, Robb slowly brought his hand down and decided to get to the point.

"The North thanks you for you allowing us use of the Royal Fleet," the Young Wolf graciously said.

Stannis looked at young man thirty-years his junior. "The person you should be thanking for lending you my ships is Daveth, not me."

"Even so, we appreciate the generosity House Baratheon has shown us."

"It would be unwise to confuse generosity with concessions," Stannis reminded Robb. "My family is not the kind who lends other houses our military vessels simply on a whim."

Robb frowned. "I had not asked His Grace to make a concession of any sorts. I only asked for his aid in repelling the ironborn from the North."

"And yet you got it anyway. When all this is over, my ships are returning to Dragonstone."

"Fair enough," he replied. "I'd like a fight. My men would like a fight."

"Do not mistake one battle you had at Blackwater Bay with a real war because that's not how soldiers are made," Stannis said with his typical air of authority. "War is not about seeking glory. We know our duties, and abide by them by every law of Westeros. You'll find that even so long as us experienced veterans are still standing that we'll point out the flaws in your approach to battle, boy."

Robb felt his temper rise. "Do not call me boy again, Lord Stannis."

"Only a boy would make such a demand of not being called one no matter his age."

The Young Wolf continued feeling his nerves twitch, wanting to stare down the Lord of Dragonstone but bit his tongue. Stannis was Daveth's uncle and commanded the best ships in the Royal Fleet, plus the North was in danger so Robb had to take it out on the ironborn once they landed. What was on his mind was the earlier talk he had with Daveth back at King's Landing, when Robb noticed a strange look in his friend's eyes. Something troubled him that day.

"Still, the ironborn won't be able to resist us now or ever again," Stannis continued. "Robert should have had them put to the sword as an example to any who'd dare take up arms against the King again."

"We do that and war becomes a slaughter," Robb pointed out. "If we do, then we are no better than Balon Greyjoy."

"There are no cleaner ways about war, Lord Stark, nor are there honorable ones," Stannis countered. "War is a bloody mess. No one is content about it, but it's our duty to end it."

"Then let us hope that our forces should be more than sufficient," Robb finished before leaving to join his men.

Stannis smirked in amusement.  _'I believe we have more than sufficient to root out Balon Greyjoy and the traitorous scum who follow him.'_

It was going to be a long voyage to White Harbor, and there were to be some tensions going on. Stannis observed his men and the Northern host one by one, evaluating their strengths and weaknesses and mentally strategized where they would be the most effective on the battlefield.

"The boy handled himself well on the defensive last time, now we'll see how Daveth does when he goes on the offensive; to demonstrate how our fury burns."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Oathkeeper and Young Wolf are off to war, bonds are tested, a Stark plans to seek out the Three-Eyed Raven, Stannis makes a return to the stage and Theon has finally chosen a side. What'll happen to them once the Second Greyjoy Rebellion finally dies down? And what'll happen when Daveth finds out Robb inadvertently sent Theon back to the Iron Islands without his knowledge or his consent? Thoughts? Let me know.


	42. You Can't Frighten Me

* * *

**On the Kingsroad…**

* * *

Daveth Baratheon rode alongside Ser Barristan Selmy and his uncle Ser Jaime Lannister, with Ser Lucius Blackmyre reinforcing the rear guard. Behind them stood an assembled force of nearly 80,000 men – each of whom's captains and flagbearers wearing the sigil of their houses: the royal House Baratheon of King's Landing, reinforced with soldiers supplied by Houses Lannister, Mabrand, Rykker, Stokeworth, Tyrell, Tarly, Marbrand, etc. Upon passing through the Riverlands, the large royal army was joined up with Lord Edmure Tully and his uncle Ser Brynden the Blackfish along with most of his bannermen, some 8,000 strong. Ser Barristan looked at his former squire, albeit a bit uneasy. The King had a rather stone cold, serious expression on his face ever since word reached him of Balon Greyjoy's second uprising. The old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was concerned about his state of mind ever since he rescued the young Daveth from ironborn captivity during the Siege of Old Wyk several years earlier, yet said nothing out of respect for his privacy. His uncle, Jaime, on the other hand, was the first to speak up.

"You haven't said a word since we left the Red Keep, nephew."

Daveth took a brief glance over his shoulder before returning his attention to the road. "Does the truth not surprise you?" he asked.

The kingslayer knew what troubled him. "Considering whom we're up against, no. But the way you've been carrying yourself has started to… question."

"Question what?"

"Think hard on it: you've been pushing yourself harder than you've ever been," Jaime pointed out. "A good commander must be able to remain level-headed and keep his composure, and must rid himself of any distraction. You made our goal intent, we know that much."

"If you have something to say, then say it."

"Then I'll make it plain and simple. Overextend yourself too far, and you'll end up losing more than you could possibly gain."

The Young Stag frowned. "I'm  _well aware_  of my limits, Ser Jaime, as do our men," he countered. "Considering our familial ties, I imagined you of all people should know that. Was I mistaken?"

Jaime was taken aback a bit, surprised at his nephew's outburst. Luckily, the elder Lannister kept his cool. "Well, sometimes the truth cuts both ways; and that means that sometimes we need to hear the hard truth. You may not want to hear it, but as one of your military commanders  _and_  as your uncle, this is something you really  _need_  to hear."

Daveth pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled through his nostrils, not wanting to be distracted by idle conversation. However, judging by the look in the eyes of his Kingsguard knights, neither of them was ever going to back down from this. Shaking his head and nearly throwing his hands up in the air, Daveth conceded.

"All right, then. What's the truth? The hard truth."

Barristan felt the need to intervene and clear things up. "What your uncle is trying to tell you, Your Grace, is that blind obsession can lead to one making rash decisions and costly mistakes," Barristan explained.

Daveth glanced at Barristan. "And what do you believe, Lord Commander?" he asked.

"Don't let the past control your actions nor let it dictate who you are. A good King should do everything within his power to defend the weak, and he must do so without forsaking himself and others around him. You have a chance to break the psychological hold, Your Grace, and prove it to the people that it is possible."

The King took a moment to let Barristan's and Jaime's words sink in, though it was rather difficult. True as those words may be, it stung him a bit now that he's facing a scenario like that; one in which it pitted his duty and his inner demons in an internal battle. Daveth could not afford any conflict or self-doubt, but somewhere deep down he knew it was inevitable as soon as he ascended the Iron Throne.

"I can't make promises I might not keep, Ser Barristan," he told him, "but I'll try."

That seemed to comfort Barristan a bit. Nodding his head, he returned his sights on the Kingsroad – noticing a rather small fortress with two bridges connecting one another on each side in front of him.

"Is that…?" he asked.

Daveth nodded. "The Twins, the seat of House Frey."

Edmure, having ridden up from the rear flank with Brynden at his side, looked a bit confused. "And why exactly are we here, Your Grace?"

"I've sent a raven before we left King's Landing. Lord Walder Frey will be expecting us," he explained. "To reach Moat Cailin from the south, we'll need to cross the Trident."

Byrden chimed in. "Walder Frey might've served my brother in the past, but I wouldn't put anything past the old fuck unless he's absolutely certain that he'll get something in return. Expect nothing of him."

"Then we perhaps shouldn't keep him waiting longer than is necessary, hmm?" Daveth mused. "Ser Barristan and Ser Jaime will wait outside with the soldiers. Lord Edmure and the Blackfish will accompany me into the Twins and have a word with Lord Frey."

"Your Grace—" both seemed to protest, falling silent as the Young Stag raised his hand up.

"I cannot have others handling my negotiations for me. Someone else might have gotten it wrong. Best if he hears about it from me. Do not fret, my lords. The faster our crossing is secured, the sooner we can all go home."

Brynden narrowed his eyes as he saw two footmen in the distance riding towards them, each of them carrying the sigil of House Frey: two grey towers linked by a bridge on a darker grey field over an escutcheon of blue water.

"Well, it seems you won't have to wait much longer," the Blackfish spoke.

Daveth noticed as well. The two men rode in front of the King and politely lowered their heads in curtsey.

 

"You honor us with your presence, Your Grace," one of them spoke. "Welcome to the Crossing."

"We've made the necessary arrangements for your arrival," the other suggested.

"So it would seem," the Young Stag replied. "And you two are…?"

"Lothar Frey," the first one introduced himself. "I handle the day-to-day running of the castle for father."

"And I'm Walder Rivers," the other said. "Most call me 'Black Walder'."

Edmure scoffed. "So the Late Lord Frey sends Lame Lothar and a bastard. What will the old man think of next?"

Both Lothar and Black Walder were equally offended and frowned deeply at the Lord of Riverrun's harsh remarks and apparent insult to their father. "Late Lord Frey" was a nickname bestowed upon Lord Walder Frey by his long deceased liege lord Hoster Tully after delaying his arrival to assist Robert's Rebellion until the outcome had already been determined at the Battle of the Trident. Needless to say, that earned some scorn and mocking laughter from the other noble houses.

But before any of the soldiers could even snicker, Brynden smacked Edmure upside the head as Daveth himself raised a fist – signaling them to be silent.

"Stupid boy," the Blackfish scolded his nephew harshly.

"We've come to the Twins to cross the Green Fork with Lord Frey's blessings, not to hurl insults at him or any of his sons and daughters," the King reminded them all. He returned his attention to Lothar and Black Walder. "I apologize for their rude behavior. Some people do not understand when to keep their thoughts to themselves."

Black Walder still sneered. "The fault lies with those who never learn  _when_  to shut their holes."

Lother sought to change the subject. "Our father has been waiting for your arrival for some time, Your Grace. He awaits your presence in the main hall."

"Then take me to him," Daveth said. "Lord Edmure and the Blackfish will be coming with me as well."

Both Lothar and Black Walder looked at each other, before returning their gaze on the Young Stag himself.

"This way, Your Grace," spoke Lothar.

The Frey trueborn and bastard motioned for Daveth to follow behind them, to which the King did. Lord Edmure and Ser Brynden followed suit; the Lord of Riverrun had a distinctive feeling in the pit of his gut that he wasn't going to like what was about to happen. Brynden, on the other hand, kept a scruffy appearance as they were led to the front entrance of the Twins. Daveth, examining the stronghold, held the reins on his horse as he trailed Lothar and Black Walder. He had to secure the right to cross the Trident from Walder Frey; it was the fastest means of traveling north to Moat Cailin.

If need be, Daveth will employ the arsenals he has at his disposal. A small wicked grin crept upon his face – as the Oathkeeper had been preparing for this moment for quite some time. And he had just the plan to bring everything into place.

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

 

Sansa had been sitting down practicing her sewing, mostly in an attempt to get her mind off of the fact that both her husband and brother are off fighting a war again. Still she couldn't focus that well and placed her yarn and needle down onto the desk before looking out the window, observing the numerous buildings throughout the cities below. Sansa had been thinking about her husband King Daveth as of late; the Oathkeeper seemed rather hostile when she confronted him before he left to fight in the war.

"You worry too much," a voice called out to her.

Sansa turned around to see Cersei Lannister approach her unannounced. The Queen Mother had taken a moment beforehand to make a rather 'unpleasant' transition from her position now that Cersei's daughter-in-law is Queen Consort now. Sansa felt a little unsettled as Cersei stared at her with her emerald green eyes, her golden hair waved gently with the breeze. Cersei gave a small smile, her crimson dress brightened the room. Regardless of how she felt, Sansa hid her discomfort behind a courteous smile and polite curtsies.

"Mother-in-law," she greeted warmly.

Cersei knew it was an attempt to conceal herself, considering Sansa of House Stark is an honorable woman. But even then the Golden Lioness knew how adapt and mature Sansa grew since her arrival at King's Landing two years ago.

"Forgive me, I did not hear you enter," continued Sansa. "May I offer you some wine?"

Cersei shook her head. "No, no, I'm fine," she simply replied. "I thought I'd stop by and check on you. Marriage agrees with you it seems."

"You are kind to say so, Your Grace. I hope I make him happy."

"What are you sewing?"

"It's… a tunic. I asked the seamstresses of King's Landing what to make for Daveth once he comes home."

"Such devotion. Daveth seems quite taken with his new Queen."

"And I him. But…"

"'But'?" she raised an eyebrow.

Sansa looked out the window again before returning to meet Cersei's gaze. "I'm worried about Daveth."

"And what makes you believe that, little dove?"

"Ever since we received word of Lord Balon Grejoy's rebellion, Daveth has been behaving rather strangely. Almost hostile," she fidgeted the needle between her fingertips. "I don't know what to do."

Cersei appeared to know what Sansa was getting at. "Did he ever tell you of what happened at Lannisport?" she asked.

Sansa nodded. "He did, yes, but… I'm worried what this war will do to him in the long run."

"And you think all of this will magically go away once the war's over?" Cersei scoffed. "Don't be so stupid. The damage has already been done, ever since the ironborn took my son away and tortured him endlessly."

Sansa blinked at Cersei's sudden hostile tone bring directed at her. Still to this day, she couldn't understand what she possibly could've done to make Cersei Lannister hate her so much – even with Shae's words of comfort and suggestion that her mother-in-law treated her badly simply because she was jealous of her.

"Nothing you could say, or do will ever make this go away."

Sansa shook her head. "Maybe, but that won't stop me from trying. All scars heal given time."

"And given time, you'll find that some things just don't change," Cersei leaned in closely to stare Sansa down. "We mothers do what we can to keep our sons from the grave, but they yearn for it all the same. Daveth doesn't listen to me, not the way he used to."

"Why?"

That seemed to catch Cersei off-guard; if only for a brief moment.

"Why do you hate me?" Sansa asked again.

"You think you are so perfect, aren't you?" she whispered so no one but Sansa could hear her. "Trying to be something you're not? What sort of witchcraft did you use to brainwash my son? To turn him  _against me_?"

Sansa couldn't honestly believe what she was hearing. "I have done no sort of thing. On my honor as a Stark, by the Old Gods and the New."

Cersei decided to torment her a little further. "And yet you spread your legs for him on your wedding night, didn't you, little dove? Doesn't take much to wrap a man around your finger then to offer him a slice of cake… just waiting to be eaten."

Sansa felt heat rush to her cheeks, though she wasn't sure if it was from embarrassment or from anger. Working to regain her composure, Sansa steadily put the needle down and rose to her feet. "I fail to see how all this matters," the Wolf Queen stood her ground. "What the King and I do is between me and him. I love my husband very much. I do. Even if you yourself do not approve of us being together, Daveth was promised to me by oath just as much as Robert was to you."

Cersei frowned at being reminded of being married to that fat, drunken, abusive man who happened to be King and fathered their only trueborn son. Even more so was that this 'little dove' had grown into a capable young woman. Now, the wolf was going toe-to-toe with the lion once again. "And before that Robert was to marry your she-wolf aunt, Lyanna Stark. He never got over that. When he climbed on top of me, stinking of filth and wine, he whispered your aunt's name in my ear. You think I hadn't forgotten that insult?"

Sansa did not budge. "That was almost 20 years ago, mother-in-law. Nor is it fair to blame me or any of my family for something we did not do."

"No, but it was bound to happen again nonetheless. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that the Starks and Baratheons would always be a tight nit group, now that you've married my son."

Sansa felt the increasing urge to slap Cersei, but kept her emotions in check. Cersei was enjoying herself, feeling a moment of triumphant as she didn't hear a response.

***GROWL***

Such a sound caught Cersei's attention as she saw a large creature emerging from beneath the bedside. The Golden Lioness's eyes widened and she bitterly frowned as deep as she could muster as she recognized the animal that walked to the side of its mistress. Cersei recognized that direwolf anywhere. Lady, the same direwolf she ordered to be executed for what its sister Nymeria did to Joffrey's arm at the banks of the Trident two years ago. Only this time, Lady was just as large – standing at Sansa's waist as she kept growling in defense of her mistress.

"You…!" Cersei hissed.

Sansa brushed Lady's shoulders gently, calming the beast. "You tried to have Lady killed for a crime she did not commit. But that's what you do, isn't it? When something doesn't go the way you want them to, you lash out and blame others for no particular reason at all without just cause. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that you would say or do anything just to hold onto what you desire most."

The Wolf Queen had used the Golden Lioness's own words against her, flipping them around and pointing out her own flaws. Whatever moment of triumph Cersei had was reduced to bitter resentment as Sansa leaned in to whisper into Cersei's ear.

"Go on, keep insulting me if you must. You don't frighten me anymore," Sansa challenged boldly. "I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. I am the wife of the great Oathkeeper, King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name and I carry his child  _inside_  me. Because you are my husband's mother, I will let you off with a warning: do not threaten me or my family ever again. Now good day, mother-in-law. I have work to do."

Cersei felt as if the floor beneath her shatters into thousands of pieces. How dare was this younger, more beautiful Queen fighting back against her like this – but also revealing the stunning revelation that Sansa was now pregnant with Daveth's child. Curling her hands into a fist, Cersei was furious and stormed out the room.

"You'll get your comeuppance soon enough, little dove," Cersei told herself before curling her lips into a vicious smile. "And you've just given me the perfect means of making your life a living hell. No one taunts a lion and gets away with it."

* * *

**At Moat Cailin…**

* * *

Victarion Greyjoy stood atop Moat Cailin's battlements, eyeing the surrounding areas as more of his men offload supplies from his flagship, the  _Iron Victory_. The ironborn had held Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte for almost more than a month now, and apparently things had been going rather well for the Kingdom of the Iron Islands: they had complete control over the Neck and prevented the Northmen from coming back up. But Victarion knew that their invasion would be met with an immediate response. And he wasn't sitting on his laurels either. Victarion donned a tall black warhelm, wrought in the shape of an iron kraken, its arms coiled down around his cheeks to meet beneath his jaw. Grabbing the hilt of his great battleaxe, Victarion's face hardened as another ironborn raider approached him.

"Things are going mighty well, Lord Captain," he grinned wickedly. "The wolves are broken, and the stags are confused."

"Words are wind," Victarion told his minion. His eyes were as sharp as they had ever been. "The greenlanders will come fighting us regardless. But we'll be ready for them when they do come."

"So long as we hold the Neck, the North and the stag boy won't do anything about it. This war's been over long before it even began."

Victarion shook his head. "And yet we never engaged them ever since we made the first move," he reminded his men. "But you're right about one thing though: Moat Cailin is an impregnable fortress. So long as we still hold Moat Cailin, we can repel one assault after another. And we have access to Saltspear and the Fever River. We can beat anyone at sea, but on land… Krakens are at their best when in their element."

Before the ironborn raider could respond, another ironborn by the name of Ralf Stonehouse made his presence known. "Lord Captain, I bring news."

"What is it?"

"Robb Stark and most of his bannermen have made landfall at White Harbor. He's sent a splinter force led by Galbart Glover to retake Deepwood Motte while he and the rest of his men march to attack Moat Cailin from the north."

Victarion lifted off his helm. "So the wolf has made his move," he concluded. "What else?"

"Daveth Baratheon was last seen at the Twins with nearly 90,000 men. If he somehow manages to cross the Trident river, then the Young Stag himself will march up to attack Moat Cailin from the south."

_'They intend to attack us on both sides,'_  the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet realized. "Stonehouse, send a raven to my niece Yara at Deepwood Motte! Tell her she'll be expecting company soon," he began barking orders at his men. "The rest of you, gather your blades and get ready for battle!"

"What is dead may never die!" they chanted.

"But rises again harder and stronger!" replied Victarion.

Drowning in the war cries and maniacal laughter of the ironborn, Victarion stared into the distance – getting himself ready for battle once more.

"So the wolf and the stag intend to utilize a pincer movement… Impressive, but it doesn't matter. In the end, we take what is ours with salt and iron. We pay the iron price. What is dead may never die. Soon, all greenlanders will fall before the kraken's might."

As rain and thunder swept across the skies above, the preparations for a large battle was soon to be underway. Putting his helm back on and moving his men into the best possible positions, Victarion was intent on holding Moat Cailin by any means necessary. So long as they're close to the sea, the krakens will always have a plan in store for those brave enough to dive into the unknown waters below. The ironborn had best prepare themselves for the oncoming storm. Because raging storm is going to be a big one, and just as destructive when it makes landfall.


	43. Old Rivalries and a Bitter Cold

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Arya Stark had been running around the Red Keep, either it is chasing cats or gathering whatever necessities her sister Sansa's been asking for. Ever since she learned she was going to be an aunt, Arya playfully tried to play it down – but deep down, Arya was happy; despite finding Sansa's demands to be seemingly overbearing with her backaches, aching feet, vomiting, emotional mood swings and strange cravings.

_'Ugh! So many demands! Guess this is what it's like,_ ' thought Arya.

She would have normally searched for Bodrin since he was one of King Daveth's contacts in the city, but he was nowhere to be found. Still, Arya kept searching for someone – until she found herself wandering about the Tower of the Hand. Stepping inside the building again, brought forth bitter sweet memories of when her late father Lord Eddard Stark was Hand of the King. Now, Lord Tywin Lannister resides here. It made her somewhat upset, yet ever more determined – if not daring.

Arya pulled out a scroll from her pants pocket and reviewed the list of supplies she'd have to get. Herbs… check. Pillows… check. Water… check. Lemon cakes… check. Ink and quill… uncheck. Hopefully there were at least a couple of spares lying about. Surely Tywin wouldn't mind; he is the King's grandfather, after all. Still, the young she-wolf wasn't going to take any chances with him despite his reputation. Utilizing her keen senses as well as her familiarity with her surroundings, Arya swiftly yet stealthily snuck past Tywin's guards and made her way into Tywin's chambers. Arya took a moment to observe the area; Seven hells, how things have changed this past year. Wherever she looked, she saw lion sigils around the halls. Lannister. That's who she found herself surrounded by. Time was of the essence, Arya reminded herself. Tywin or his guards could be back at any moment.

_'Just grab what you're looking for and get out!'_

Looking at the desk, Arya searched one drawer after another until she found an extra ink and quill. Feeling herself sigh with relief, Arya was beginning to turn away until a certain parchment caught her eyes. Leaning in to get a closer look, Arya took up and read the parchment.

> _"Moving the Lannister and Redwynne fleets north past Fair Isle. Estimate to reach the Iron Islands and Seagard in four days, three if we have the wind. Will establish a blockade around the perimeter to prevent our forces on the mainland from getting overwhelmed._ _Scouts report His Grace, the King, moving troops through the Trident on foot with the intent on ensnaring Moat_ _Cailin in a pincer attack coordinated with Robb Stark._
> 
> _Once Moat Cailin is secure, pick up His Grace and his_ _soldiers at Seagard and commence a full invasion of_ _the Iron Islands."_

It wasn't much, but Arya knew that every bit of news she could find would help lift whatever worry Sansa must be feeling. After all, her husband and their brother are out there on the battlefield, and Arya resolved to do whatever she could. Taking a moment to make sure the coast was clear, Arya rolled up the parchment and stuck it in her pocket before making her way out of the Hand of the King's office. On her way back to the Red Keep, however, Arya wasn't paying attention and bumped into one of Tywin's bannermen, Ser Amory Loch, and stumbled onto the floor. The knight is described as a cruel, simple and small portly man of average height, as well as having a pale piggy face with small pig-like eyes, and a high, thin voice. Ser Amory looked behind him and noticed Arya looking up at him.

"What are you doing here?" Amory gruffly demanded, grabbing Arya's arm and yanking her up.

Arya knew she was exposed and was in a very precarious position. She had to think of a way to get out real fast, and make her excuse a rather convincing one. "I got lost, ser. I'm sorry. I'll leave at once," she lied.

Ser Amory didn't look convinced. "That'll be up to Lord Tywin to decide what to do with you, boy."

Arya hated being mistaken for a boy every time. Because she was disheveled and unclean, because she wore trousers instead of dresses, Arya was easily mistaken as a boy wherever she went despite her repeated, annoyed insistence that she was in fact a girl. She thought about putting up a fight against Ser Amory's tight grip, but knew that would only get her in trouble as she heard a low, cool voice break the silence.

"What is all this?"

 

On que, Tywin Lannister himself arrived at the Tower of the Hand and overheard the commotion. Arya looked up at Tywin, feeling an intimidating presence about him. She heard about this man by reputation and what she was told by her mother, Sansa and Daveth. Before she could say anything, Ser Amory threw her to the ground.

"Kneel before Lord Tywin, boy!" he shouted at Arya.

"This one's a girl, you idiot. The Queen's sister," Tywin rebuffed him before turning to look at Arya. "You're not carrying yourself as a lady. Instead, you're dressed as a boy. Care to explain why?"

Arya took a moment to dust herself off and regain her composure.

"Safer to travel, my lord," she answered honestly, "thought it would be useful in case I need to blend in with the crowd."

"Smart. More than I can say for this lot. While you're here, I could use a cupbearer. Come. It's time for a little meeting with the King's new Master of Laws."

Arya shook off Ser Amory's hold on her arm, yet reluctantly followed Tywin to one of Littlefinger's brothels. She didn't want to go to such a disgusting, vile place, but felt her stomach twist in knots and her throat muscles tighten.

_'Seven hells, how did I get myself in this mess…?'_  she complained.

Ignoring the whores along with the sounds and smell of sex surrounding her, Arya kept her head down and glued her eyes to the floor—especially near Tywin's feet. Once they entered into a room, Arya took a brief glance up to see Oberyn Martell on a bed whilst looking over a small book. It was her first time meeting the Red Viper of Dorne. Oberyn yawned as he set the book down, apparently tired from his duties as much as he was his round of lovemaking with Ellaria Sand. He heard footsteps approach and saw both Tywin and Arya enter the room.

"Prince Oberyn," Tywin acknowledged.

"Lord Tywin."

Ellaria looked at the two, but noticed Arya. "A bit young for this, aren't you?"

Arya looked away, feeling a small blush form on her cheeks.

"Don't mind her," said Tywin. "The girl is Queen Sansa's sister. She'll be temporarily acting as cupbearer and page if she proves herself."

_'Thanks for the vote of confidence,'_  Arya mocked internally.

"I see," Oberyn noticed. "Your sister spoke often about you, girl. How… a wild she-wolf you are. I don't believe you have met Ellaria, haven't you?"

Arya shook her head. "No, my lord. I haven't met a Sand before," she said before quickly shutting her mouth as soon as she realized what she just said.

Ellaria looked offended. 

"I – forgive me, I apologize for being so rude, Lady Ellaria. I have a bastard brother back in the North. Jon Snow. I… I didn't mean to offend you."

Ellaria's face softened as she felt Arya's apology was warm and sincere. "You didn't know, child. It's all right," she replied. "We are everywhere in Dorne. I have 10,000 brothers and sisters."

Oberyn took a moment to explain. "Bastards are born of passion, aren't they? We don't despise them in Dorne."

"That's… that sounds nice."

"People everywhere have their differences. In some places, the highborn frown upon those of low birth. In other places, the rape and murder of women and children is considered… distasteful. We don't hurt little girls in Dorne."

Arya blinked. She was certain there was a story behind Oberyn's words, but Tywin brushed them off.

"Give us the room, girl," Tywin ordered.

Ellaria took that as her que to leave. "Call my name if you need me, lover," she said.

Arya didn't say anything and walked out of the room with Ellaria in tow; the two of them sharing exchanges once they were out of earshot. Now alone, Tywin and Oberyn stood face-to-face.

"Would you like to sit?" Oberyn offered.

Tywin shook his head. "No, thank you."

"Some wine?"

"No, thank you."

Oberyn stood and stretched his muscles before the Dornish Master of Laws put on his robe and filled his cup.

"Your grandson's been very busy as of late, hasn't he?"

"You've been paying attention, I see."

"With a reputation like 'the Oathkeeper', how could I not? How could Dorne not be interested? We heard such fascinating stories. A boy, born into a powerful royal bloodline, managed to accumulate so much power and influence  _and_  gets results so very quickly in such a short span of time long before ascending the Iron Throne. But when we heard of… very, very bad men… who'd taken the same boy captive and tortured him so badly, he'd later develop a taste—a burning desire—for vengeance against the people who wronged him; the same ones who are terrorizing those along the western coast as they are now. I don't believe that a child is responsible for the sins of his father… or his grandfather. I'm sure you know what I'm talking about."

Tywin looked unfazed. "And what would that be?"

"Are you interrogating me, Lord Tywin?" Oberyn feigned insult.

"Your hatred for my family is rather well-known. I understand you spoke with Tyrion in this very brothel on the day that you arrived."

"We did. I was hoping the King would join us, but I heard you talked him out of it."

"What did you discuss?" pressed Tywin.

"You think we conspired together?" Oberyn's charming façade quickly faded away. "Fine. We discussed the death of my sister, Elia Martell. And her children."

It didn't take long before Tywin connected the dots. "For which you blame me."

"She was raped and murdered by the Mountain, Ser Gregor Clegane. The Mountain follows your orders. Of course I blame you. Yet I heard he's been on the run from the law these past two years. Not as much fun when the world aims to take his head, and no allies to call upon for help."

"And yet I heard about this… 'deal', my grandson made with you. Care to elaborate?"

Oberyn walked towards Tywin, staring him right in the eyes. "What does it matter to you? If I tell you, you'll simply deny it and ignore Dorne's call for justice."

"Try me."

"Our demands have been ignored for almost 20 years now. Dorne has neither forgotten nor forgiven the Mountain's crimes. It wasn't until last year when the Oathkeeper himself extended an offer: your grandson offers the hand of his sister Princess Myrcella to my nephew Prince Trystane and delivers us the justice we've been denied for so long in exchange for Dorne returning to the fold."

_'Clever boy. We'll be having a rather long conversation once this rebellion is over,_ ' Tywin thought.

"I might be hot-headed," Oberyn continued, "but I am not unreasonable."

"Men at war commit all kinds of crimes without their superiors' knowledge."

The Red Viper frowned. "Why am I not surprised? Deny it as always."

"Categorically speaking, Prince Oberyn."

"I am the Master of Laws, Lord Tywin, appointed to the Small Council by the King himself. No one is above the law, not even you. I would like to speak with the Mountain once he's been found."

"And he might enjoy speaking with you, provided that he is caught," Tywin countered.

"He might not enjoy it as much as he thinks he would."

Feeling the politically strategic advantage swaying in his favor, Tywin stepped forward towards Oberyn who had already begun eating a grape.

"I could arrange for this meeting."

"Oh?" Oberyn raised an eyebrow skeptically. "And why would you… unless you must want something in return. Not quite as tempting, if you ask me."

Tywin decided to present his offer. "You mentioned the deal my grandson made to Dorne. Perhaps he knows there is a silver lining so many in this city fail to see."

"So now you finally understand why he approached us?"

"We are not the Seven Kingdoms until Dorne returns to the fold, yes," Tywin concurred. "The Greyjoys are in open rebellion, a wildling army marches on the Wall, and in the east, a Targaryen girl has three dragons. Before long, she will turn her eyes to Westeros. Only the Dornish managed to resist Aegon Targaryen and  _his_  dragons."

Oberyn felt his lips curl into a mocking grin. "So you admit you do need us? That must have been hard for you say, Lord Tywin. Shame your grandson realized that before you did."

"Then I'll make it simple for you," Tywin extended a hand. "We need each other. You help us permanently put down Balon Greyjoy's second rebellion along with those who shared in his crimes, and in return we will help you serve justice to Elia's as Daveth promised."

Oberyn studied Tywin's words slowly, knowing this wasn't the initial promise that was made. The offer was still the same, however, justice for Elia Martell's murder. To him, it didn't matter so long as the bargain was kept. Oberyn slowly reached forth his hand and gripped Tywin's in his.

"You better keep your end of the bargain, Lord Tywin," Oberyn warned. "Otherwise, Dorne will not return to the Seven Kingdoms ever again."

_'We will see,'_  Tywin calculated.

The Old Lion of Casterly Rock never failed to take advantage of a family tragedy; it's just that his methods were much colder in comparison to Daveth's – even though the pace and results were nearly similar. But only time will tell.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

Arya Stark and Ellaria Sand stood outside Littlefinger's brothel, holding a rather surprisingly pleasant conversation.

"Seven hells, are you serious?" laughed Arya.

Ellaria Sand smiled at the girl's cheerful nature. It was the complete opposite of what she had just witnessed inside the complex moments earlier. "Right into the Water Gardens," she explained. "Two of my daughters were swimming with Princess Myrcella, trading jokes in the sun. Well, by 'swimming', I meant playfully pushing each other in one-by-one."

"Sounds like Myrcella is happy in Dorne."

"Believe me. She is."

"Daveth'll be happy to hear about it. He misses her."

Ellaria's smile dipped. "And she misses him. She's been writing letters almost every week, yearning to see her brother. But when Myrcella heard of Renly's and Balon's rebellion, the letters stopped coming."

"It's never been easy," Arya shook her head. "Can't even imagine how she's feeling right now."

"She's worried."

"Worried? About who?"

"Her brother, of course."

Arya pondered in thought. "I'm certain my sister can make an arraignment for Dorne once all this mess rolls over. Sansa can vouch for the King, I'm sure of it."

Ellaria shook her head a bit. "I don't think that's a wise move, girl. Relations between Dorne and the crown are… tense, as of late."

"What happened between the Lannisters and Martells?"

"The Lannisters sacked the city when it became clear the rebels would win in the end," the Sand bastard explained. "My lover's sister and her children were put to the sword by Lannister butchers. Oberyn and Doran never forgave the Lannisters for their crimes nor have they forgotten them."

"So they want revenge?"

"They do."

"Well, why doesn't Daveth just give it to them already?" Arya asked.

Ellaria pondered. "Easier said than done, though Dorne would have gotten justice a lot sooner if the rest of the world had simply taken a moment to simply look to the Rhoynish culture as an example. That I think is the only way how we can truly adapt. Sadly, the rest of the world doesn't see it that way."

"So if we change things here like the warrior-queen Nymeria of Ny Sar, you think things will be better for all?"

"It's possible. But it would take more than just talking to get it done."

Both Ellaria and Arya stopped as soon as they overheard that Tywin Lannister and Oberyn Martell ceased talking. They could tell one of them would come out at any moment.

"Look, Lady Ellaria," Arya whispered. "I probably don't have a lot of time, and I hate to ask you this, but could you deliver this to Sansa for me?"

She reached into her pockets and pulled out the roll of paper she read earlier before being caught by Ser Amory Loch. Ellaria examined the parchment.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Something that should make my sister feel more at ease," Arya explained. "She's been worrying about our brother Robb and her husband Daveth."

Ellaria looked at the girl closely, before rolling the paper in her dress – away from public view. "You want this to be delivered to your sister's handmaiden… Shae, wasn't it?"

Arya nodded. "Yes. She'll know what it means. But please, hurry. I don't want to see you get in trouble."

Ellaria patted Arya's head. "Stubborn little thing, but you've got a good heart, girl. Try not to lose yourself to the Lannisters."

"I won't," Arya proclaimed.

Ellaria nodded and began walking towards the Red Keep. Arya looked on, feeling guilty for having to ask a stranger for a favor – but she felt a weight lift off her shoulders before Tywin inevitably returned.

"Girl," he called out to her.

Arya scrambled to her feet. "Yes, my lord?"

"Come with me to my chambers. There is something we must discuss before tonight's Small Council meeting."

Arya gulped; wondering what Tywin could possibly mean by that. But she maintained a strong persona.

"As you will, my lord."

* * *

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

The Free Folk army led by the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance Rayder, including Jon Snow, Tormund Giantsbane, the warg Orell and Ygritte, arrived at the Fist of the First Men. Upon walking up the snowy slopes, the 100,000 Free Folk forces stopped in their tracks to take a moment to survey the aftermath of the bloody carcasses scattered all over the places. Several horse corpses were sprayed across the Fist of the First Men in different spiral-like patterns. As a raging blizzard battered them, Mance dropped down to one knee to examine the severed horse heads.

"Always the artists," Mance examined.

Jon Snow looked at the King-Beyond-the-Wall. He was certain Mance was referred to the White Walkers, the same creatures he encountered at Craster's Keep a long time ago. The severed corpses of all of the Watch's horses have been carefully arranged into a large-scale, ceremonial spiral pattern. However, there is no sign of any human corpses.

"It's only horses," Jon suggested. "I don't see any men here."

"You said there were dead crows," Ygritte implored.

"There was," Orell insisted.

Mance looked to Jon. "How many men were here?"

Jon looked at the number of parts lying around. "If I were to guess, I'd say somewhere around 300. Those who were lucky enough to be further away should've been lucky enough to escape before the slaughter," he estimated.

"And you know what those men are now?"

Jon slowly nodded.

"We're all the same to them, meat for their army. Even if you believe some of lucky crows did manage to get away, it wouldn't be impossible. You don't go far betting against Mormont. But dead or alive, he took a big gamble coming north and he lost. His best fighting men are dead. And whether he's Lord Commander of the Night's Watch or a blue-eyed corpse, he's a long way from home."

Mance turned to look at Tormund. "Tormund. Take Orell and 20 good men," he ordered before pointing to Jon. "And take this one with you. He knows Castle Black's defenses better than any of us. And if he's useful, good. If not, throw him off the Wall. See if crows can fly."

Jon's eyes widened as Tormund grinned in delight. Ygritte, meanwhile, looked rather worried. She had grown to like Jon Snow throughout their time together with the rest of the Free Folk – even though she and Jon were originally on opposing sides.

"We're finally going to war, old friend?" Tormund asked.

Mance nodded. "Hide near Castle Black. When I give the signal, hit them in the night. They've got a big old wall to hide behind, but it only guards one side."

Tormund laughed as the two friends embraced. "We'll meet again," he said.

"Aye," the King-Beyond-the-Wall agreed. "If you do your job."

Tormund jokingly groaned as Orell stepped forward.

"How will we see your signal?" he asked.

"Send your eagle above the Wall every night," Mance answered as he turned back to join the rest of the Free Folk army. "When it's time, I'm going to light the biggest fire the North has ever seen."

Jon Snow looked on as Mance Rayder walked away before turning away. He knew deep down that if he didn't rendezvous with the other Night's Watchmen, the ancient order would be in terrible trouble – a war in which they are outnumbered 10-to-1. As soon as he saw a moment to warn the others, Jon would take it. For now… he'll have to keep up the façade of his defection until the time is right.


	44. Mutiny at Craster's Keep

* * *

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

The surviving men of the Night's Watch's Great Ranging are still recovering their strength following the devastating defeat at the Battle at the Fist of the First Men against the White Walkers. Some of them were dying of their wounds, and the rest were starving for any scrap of food. They had been clearly outnumbered and unprepared against such a terrifying threat and it was a long journey back to Castle Black. Out of 300 selected for the Great Ranging, only around 60 men survived but their numbers dwindled down to just 44. Once Lord Commander Jeor Mormont informed the remaining survivors that they were once again making a pit stop at Craster's Keep to resupply, something that had clearly hadn't settled with some of his men. Morale was low, and things were getting increasingly tense. Samwell Tarly was still shaken at having personally witnessed a White Walker up close, but at the same time he felt a sense of relief after managing to escape. He looked to his right and spotted his friend Jon Snow's direwolf.

"Ghost?" he called out.

The albino direwolf simply ignored Samwell and continued scouring the area. Nearby, one of the Night's Watchmen, the former rapist Rast, walks over to the former Prince Joffrey Baratheon.

"We need to get out of here," he whispers.

Joffrey looks at him. "How? And where would we go?" he asks a bit loudly.

Rast waves his hand to tell Joffrey to be quiet, but apparently some of the others heard what he had said.

"When the Lord Commander says we go, we go," said Edd.

"The Lord Commander told us to go to the Fist of the First Men. How'd that turn out for us?"

"He had no way of knowing."

"We do now," Joffrey spat incredulously. "We know what's out there."

Grenn intervened. "Craster's been out here surviving."

"So he's your new protector now? Our good friend Craster?"

Now aware of their discontent, Rast decided to stop playing games. "When the Walkers come calling, Craster will serve us up like so many pigs. If we want to live, we'll have to look out for ourselves."

Edd and Grenn looked at them in disbelief as Joffrey and Rast continued venting their growing frustrations.

"That own bastard Craster starved one of our own men, Bannen, to death," Rast stated.

"Craster's got his daughters to feed," Samwell tried to explain, but to no avail.

"Oh, so you're on his side now?" Joffrey sneered.

"We can't just show up and steal all his food. We're brothers of the Night's Watch, not thieves."

"Everything was fine for me down at King's Landing, piggy! I had everything! I had food, I had warmth, I had safety… I had power. Especially power! 'Til the day my own brother, the great King Daveth, took everything away from me and banished me to this frozen shithole of a wasteland!"

"Quiet, Joffrey!" Edd chastened him.

"You're gonna get us all in trouble again!" Grenn gritted through his teeth.

Samwell was taken aback by Joffrey's outburst; though he wasn't sure whether it was from the fear of the White Walkers or being forced to live the rest of his miserable life bound in service to the Night's Watch until his death.

"The day we leave, Craster will tap a barrel of  _our_  wine, and sit down to a feast of ham and potatoes and laugh at us starving in the snow," Rast agreed with Joffrey. "He's a bloody wildling."

In the main hall, Lord Commander Mormont is checking a map in his journal, as Craster continues to crassly berate the men of the Night's Watch.

"Never knew Bannen could smell so good," he mocked.

Craster was a thick man made thicker by the ragged smelly sheepskins he wore day and night. He had a broad flat nose, a mouth that drooped to one side, and a missing ear. And though his matted hair and tangled beard might be grey going white, his hard knuckly hands still looked strong enough to hurt.

The Old Bear, Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, felt his hands curl into a fist as he listened to the Night Watch's unsavory ally continue to insult and degrade his men, and with the condition they're in, it'll only make matters worse in the long run. But Jeor knew he needed Craster for whatever supplies the wildling could offer so he could keep his men fed beyond the Wall itself. His thoughts were broken by shuddering sobs echoing down the long low windowless hall.

"Push, Gilly," he heard Morag, one of Craster's older daughter-wives, tell her. "Harder. Harder. Scream if it helps." She did, so loud it made Samwell outside wince.

"That's it," another woman said. "Another push, now. Oh, I see his head."

Downwind, other brothers were skinning and butchering the animals deemed too weak to go on. Spearmen and archers walked sentry behind the earthen dikes that were Craster's only defense against whatever hid in the wood beyond, while a dozen firepits sent up thick fingers of blue-grey smoke.

"You have one son, don't you, Mormont?"

Jeor briefly looked at Craster before returning to look at his map.

"I had 99," the wildling continued as he chewed on a lamb bone, picking off pieces of meat that still stuck to it. "You ever met a man with 99 sons?"

Jeor shook his head 'no' as several of his men entered Craster's Keep, edging themselves closer to the firepit to stay warm as Craster continued speaking.

"I had more daughters than I can count."

"I'm glad for you," the Old Bear finally spoke up.

"Are you now?" Craster raised an eyebrow. "Me, I'll be glad when you and yours have gone. Past time, I'm thinking."

"As soon as our wounded are strong enough to travel…"

"Bah! They're strong as they're like to get, old crow, and both of us know it. Them that's dying, why don't you cut their throats and be done with it? Or leave them, if you don't have the stomach, and I'll sort them out myself."

Lord Commander Mormont bristled, but one of his own men stepped forward.

 

"And whose throat are you gonna cut, old man?" Karl Tanner challenged.

Edd, Grenn, Samwell and Joffrey looked at him. Joffrey has heard of this man before from his older brother Daveth. From what he remembered, Karl Tanner originally hailed from Gin Alley in Flea Bottom, King's Landing where he was apparently revered as a legend, making a name for himself as a highly-capable enforcer, assassin, and cutthroat. He was eventually arrested and in exchange for amnesty for his crimes, Karl became a ranger of the Night's Watch. Seeing him in person and being in the same room with him, made Joffrey felt a little uneasy. Samwell felt uneasy too, but remained silent.

"Wait outside," Jeor ordered, but Karl didn't move.

"It's cold outside and there's nothing to eat."

The wildling merely looked at him. "My wives gave you bread."

"There's sawdust in the bread," Karl pointed out as he showed the wildling a loaf of bread littered with sawdust all over it.

"If you don't like it, you go out there and eat the snow."

"I'd rather eat what you've got hidden away."

That was when trouble started as Craster began glaring at Karl with such intensity. Knowing there was going to be a problem, Jeor stood up from his bench and walked over to Karl and gave him a hard look.

"I told you to wait outside," he ordered again.

Rast stepped forward. "He's sitting there drinking our wine, eating his fill while we die."

Craster narrowed his eyes. "I gave you crows enough. I've got to feed my women!"

"You admit you've got a hidden larder then?" Joffrey snapped. "How else would you have made it through a winter like this?"

And just like that, more of Jeor's men began stepping forward to address their complaints.

"He's got hams," Garth of Oldtown said, in a reverent voice. "There were pigs, last time we were here. I bet he's got hams hidden someplace else. Smoked and salted hams, and bacon too."

"Sausage," said Dirk. "Them long black ones, they're like rocks, they keep for years. I bet he's got a hundred hanging in some cellar."

"Oats," suggested Ollo Lophand. "Corn. Barley."

"Apples," said Garth of Greenaway. "Barrels and barrels of crisp autumn apples. There are apple trees out there, I saw 'em."

"Dried berries. Cabbages. Pine nuts."

"Salt mutton. There's a sheepfold. He's got casks and casks of mutton laid by, you know he does."

Jeor grabbed Joffrey and Rast by the scruffs of their necks and threw them outside. "Enough! Out! Both of you!"

"I am a godly man!" Craster yelled as he rose from his feet.

"You're a stingy bastard!" Rast yelled back.

"'Bastard'?!"

And that was the last straw. It was too late. Craster stood, reached over and grabbed one of his one-handed axes in a blinding fury.

"Out with you, you little thief," he growled, jabbing the head of the axe in his hand towards each Night's Watchmen individually, same steel axe that Mormont had given him as a guest gift the last time they passed through. "And you! And you! Go sleep in the cold on empty bellies! I'll chop the hands off the next man who calls me bastard."

A tense moment of silence filled the room as Lord Commander Mormont saw to it that Joffrey and Rast remained outside and didn't come back inside, albeit with the occasional squeaking of wandering rats. No one spoke. No one moved. Karl, on the other hand, firmly stared directly at Craster.

"You're a bastard," he challenged. "A daughter-fucking, wildling bastard."

Bellowing a loud, angry roar, Craster charged at him in a blind rage. Despite being drunk and clumsy, the wildling moved quicker than Samwell would have believed possible, vaulting across the table with axe in hand. A woman screamed, Garth Greenaway and Orphan Oss drew knives, but Karl was incredibly fast and grabbed Craster's hand wielding the axe and unsheathed a hidden dagger in his sleeve and roughly stabbed him through his throat and into the roof of his mouth without even flinching. Craster spat blood and is flung backward to the ground, holding his throat before his movements slowly ceased, the axe slipping from his fingers.

Two of Craster's daughter-wives were wailing, a third cursed, a fourth flew at Karl and tried to scratch his eyes out but is knocked down to the floor as Karl's dagger was placed at her throat. Jeor Mormont stood over Craster's corpse, his face reddened and dark with anger.

"The Gods will curse us for this," the Old Bear bellowed. "By all the laws—"

"There are no laws beyond the Wall," Karl shouted before threatening one of Craster's daughter-wives. "Show us where he hides the food, or you'll get the same as him."

Jeor snarled as he unsheathed his longsword and pointed it at Karl. "Unhand her."

Karl drops the girl and begins to face off against Mormont with his dagger.

"I'll have your head for this, you—"

Suddenly, Rast comes up behind Mormont and literally stabs the Lord Commander in the back, which makes Mormont drop his sword as Rast yanked out the knife, all red. For a brief moment the rest of the men stare in shock, before Grenn charges and tackles Karl to the ground. All the world had finally went mad as the entire room explodes into utter chaos.

***CLASH!***

***CLANG!***

***SWISH!***

Wounded as he was, Jeor Mormont turned around and grabbed Rast by his throat as he forcibly shoved the traitorous mutineer against the nearest pillar and began tightening his grip. Rast clawed at the Old Bear as he struggled to free himself, feeling air being choked out of him. Jeor might have had a knife lodged into his back, but he was twice Rast's size and strength. Still choking Rast, Mormont nearly succeeds in crushing Rast's windpipe with his bare hands. However, Jeor starts coughing up thick red blood. His wound was a mortal one. The injured Mormont then slowly sinks to the floor as he continues coughing up blood. Seeing that the Lord Commander was on the ground unarmed and utterly helpless, Rast grabs a knife and repeatedly pounds it into Mormont's throat until the Old Bear is dead.

As Craster's daughter-wives screamed and fled the room whilst the Night's Watchmen were too busy fighting each other, Samwell slipped outside and made a run for it. The desperate Night's Watch recruits like Rast, mostly conscripted criminals exiled to the Wall, turn on officers who are loyal to Mormont, as well as some of the other common recruits like Grenn who stay loyal. Quick flashes of the fight go by as no one can really perceive what's happening, and the mutiny spreads throughout Craster's Keep. The overweight Tarly made his way to find Gilly and her newborn son, sword in hand, but stopped in his tracks once he sees Joffrey standing in his way – pointing a longsword at him.

"T-Take it easy, Joffrey," Samwell tried speaking to him. "You don't have to do this."

Joffrey stood his ground. "Look around you, Tarly! This is what it's come to! A life of nothing but torment, misery and eternal damnation! We should've done this a long time ago! It was the only way any of us were to ever survive in this Gods forsaken hellhole!"

"There's still time! It's not too late. Come with me. Come back to the Wall with me. We have to warn the others."

"And then what?! The Wall is too far away, our bellies are empty, and worst of all we saw what was out there!"

Samwell was so very tired. All he wanted was to sleep, to sleep and sleep and never wake, and he knew that if he just stayed here soon enough Dirk or Ollo Lophand or Clubfoot Karl would get angry with him and grant his wish, just to see him die. But something in his gut urged him to keep moving. Instead of cowering, Samwell uncharacteristically stood his ground and took one step towards Joffrey. The Illborn, startled, gripped his sword in both hands.

"Stay back!" he warned as he shook. "I know how to use it!"

Samwell continued pressing forward until he got in Joffrey's face. "We have to warn everyone south of the Wall. If the White Walkers invade, then nowhere will be safe. I'd much rather die on my feet than on my knees begging like a coward. All my life I've been told how much of a coward I am. And you know what? I am."

Joffrey remained in his path.

"I am a coward," he continued. "But when I knelt before the weirwood tree and swore my oaths, I made a promise that I would stop running. Make something out of myself, find a sense of purpose. Yes, you're the shittiest person I've ever met. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows what a cruel, horrible, sadistic person you are. But you're still one of us. You are a brother of the Night's Watch, just like me."

"I only spat out the words because I couldn't stomach them! Because it was something I didn't want! All I want is to go home!" Joffrey screamed as his voice cracked, for his posturing starting to waver.

Seeing his chance at knowing how distracted Joffrey was, Samwell disarmed him and forced him to the ground, applying his full weight to pin him down. Joffrey struggled to move, but Samwell was just too heavy.

"Unhand me, you fat piece of shit! I command you! Get off of me right now!"

Samwell grabbed Joffrey's arm and continued to hold him down. "Night gathers, and now my watch begins," he firmly began reciting the Night's Watch oath. "It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post."

Joffrey ceased his struggle and stared at Samwell. For a moment he looked away, but surprisingly felt his mouth move on its own.

"…I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls," the Illborn reciprocated.

Samwell felt himself smile as they both continued the recite the words.

"I am the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come."

Once that was done, Samwell looked down at Joffrey before lifting himself off of him.

"I know that you're scared. I am too," he extended a hand. "But if we don't make it back to the Wall, then we'll have lost everything for good. I can't do this by myself. I need your help."

That was first for Joffrey; hearing someone actually asking him for help, but it was something that he detested for the most part of his life. He begged before and was shamed, and now he was in the most precarious situations in his life. Fight or flee, kill or be killed. Joffrey hated looking so weak and defenseless. But what were his options?

"I'd take that offer if I were you," said a woman's voice.

Samwell and Joffrey turned to see three of Craster's wives standing over them. Two were haggard old women they did not know.

"What's done is done," said the woman on the right.

"The blackest crows are down in the cellar, gorging," said the woman on the left, "or up in the loft with the young ones. They'll be back soon, though. Best you be gone when they do."

"Take Gilly and the baby with you."

"What about you two?" asked Samwell.

The woman on the right shook her head in resignation. "Take them someplace warm. Make sure they both survive. Make sure those  _things_  do not take him like they did Craster's sons. The cold winds are rising out there, crow, and the dead come with it. I can feel it in my bones. They'll be here soon, the sons."

_'The White Walkers,'_  thought Joffrey fearfully.

Samwell gulped, but nodded his head as he pulled Joffrey to his feet.

"We'll come back for you. I promise," the overweight Tarly promised.

"It's too late for us," the woman on the left adamantly refused. "But it's not too late for you."

Joffrey looked at Samwell, who returned to meet his gaze. It was now or never. Both of them sprinted towards the holdfast keeping Gilly and her baby. As she was looking out the small hole in the wall to see what was going on, Gilly turned to look at both Joffrey and Samwell packing whatever necessities they could find.

"Quickly. Quickly," Samwell panted.

Gilly held her infant close to her chest. "What's happening?" she asked fearfully. "I'm not going out there!"

"You don't have a choice in the matter anymore!" Joffrey screamed, causing the baby to cry.

Samwell nodded. "We have to go. Now!"

Feeling there was no way out, Gilly held her son close and wrapped him in bundles of warm cloth before venturing outside with Joffrey and Samwell.

"Follow me! I know the best way! Come on!"

All three of them were now running for their very lives, struggling to get away from the fighting as quickly as possible. One of the mutineers, Rast, had strolled outside with a bow in hand and began shooting off one arrow after another at the fleeing trio.

***STRETCHING, TWANG!***

***WHIP!***

***WHOOSH!***

A couple of them missed, each one whizzing by, until…

***BAM!***

"GAH!" Joffrey screeched in agony as an arrow found its mark and lodged itself into his back.

Samwell looked back and picked him up. "Hold on, Joffrey! We're gonna make it back to the Wall!"

The former Prince whimpered and let out more cries of pain as they moved to avoid more arrows. As they moved out of sight, Rast threw down his bow and shouted at them.

"Run fast, piggy! You too, Illborn! And sleep well! I'll be cutting your throats one of these nights."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mutiny at Craster's Keep has begun, and the mutineers have struck hard and fast. What's more, both Samwell and Joffrey each show uncharacteristic signs of change within themselves? But during their escape only one of them was wounded. What are your thoughts?


	45. Walder Frey

* * *

**At the Twins…**

* * *

  
   

King Daveth I Baratheon, Lord Edmure Tully and Ser Brynden Tully stood before the head of House Frey and Lord of the Crossing, Lord Walder Frey. An old man having recently celebrated his ninety-second nameday, Walder is considered to be the second oldest man in Westeros with a bald head spotted with age and loose skin, looking a little like a vulture but mostly a sniveling weasel; his seemingly endless legion of children have each inherited his weasel-like appearance. Over the years, Lord Walder was married more than seven times and always had an eye for younger, beautiful women. The woman standing beside him picking her teeth, Lady Joyeuse of House Erenford, is the Lord of the Crossing's eighth wife now.

The Young Stag examined Walder just as closely as Lord Frey was watching him. He knew the brittle, prickly ill-tempered old man had a sharp tongue, yet his mannerisms were rather blunt—each only having increased with age. As such, Walder Frey is a cautious man, but he is also an ambitious one—lending his aid to whoever is on the winning side; yet he also has a long memory. During Robert's Rebellion, he and his levies sided with the rebels after they won the Battle of the Trident. Because of his late arrival until the outcome was decided, Lord Hoster Tully called him "The Late Lord Frey", a name Walder has never forgotten. But because he ruled over a strategically important crossing of the Green Fork, Daveth had to deal with Walder Frey in order to cross.

The Young Stag could feel the eyes of Walder's twenty-one sons, thirty-six grandsons, nineteen great-grandsons and numerous daughters, granddaughters, bastards and grandbastards staring at him, mostly the women. Walder remained seated in his raised chair as he eyed Daveth up and down.

"Well, well. Isn't this quite a surprise?" Walder exclaimed, squinting his eyes. "His Grace honors me with his presence, unlike so many who've come before him. It's not every day that the Oathkeeper himself pays a personal visit to the Twins."

_'He acts as if he's above his station. Senile old man,'_  thought Daveth, but kept his composure. He was, after all, a guest. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you in person, Lord Frey," he spoke politely.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Daveth looked as Walder steadily groped his wife Joyeuse's buttocks in circular motion, the young lady giving a brief shudder as the old man touched her.

"I seek to lift the ironborn occupation of Moat Cailin north of here," he answered, "but to do that my men and I need to cross the Trident. As you can see, we are in a bit of a hurry. Anxious, some would say."

"Sounds like the Oathkeeper's in a bit of a pickle, and he needs my help to make this sort of problem go away."

"Mind your manners, Lord Frey!" Edmure chastised him. "You're speaking to the King!"

Sitting above to Walder's right stood his eldest son and heir, Ser Stevron Frey. A man of sixty-two years with grandchildren of his own, Stevron looked like an especially old and tired weasel, yet polite enough to speak up in Daveth's defense and sided with their liege lord Edmure Tully.

"Father," he said reproachfully, "I fear that you have forgotten yourself. The King is here at your invitation. It's beneath you to assume—"

Walder glared at his son. "Who asked you? You're not Lord Frey yet, not until I die. Do I look dead to you?"

"Father, please," said Ryder Rivers, one of his younger bastard sons. "This is no way to speak in front of our King—"

"I need lessons in courtesy from you, bastard? I'll speak any way I like, damn you. I've had three kings to guest in my life, and queens as well; do you think I require lessons from the likes of you? Your mother would still be a milkmaid if I hadn't squirted you into her belly!"

_'Charming, to say the least. Seven hells, why have the Gods cursed me for having to deal with such a man?'_  the Young Stag thought. He could already feel a headache coming on, but kept his posture and hid his growing discomfort.

"Lord Walder Frey," Edmure chastised again. "Need I remind you that you are still one of my bannermen?"

Lord Walder groaned and complained as he moved to shift himself in his seat. "Beh, pardon my manners, Your Grace," he gestured, a noise halfway between a laugh and a grunt. "When you're as old as I am, moving around can be rather difficult."

"So I see," Daveth observed.

"Now with that out of the way, perhaps my sons will do me the honor of shutting their mouths."

"Perhaps it is best if we speak privately?"

"We're talking right now, aren't we?" Walder complained.

Daveth was starting to feel his patience beginning to wear thin. An overwhelmingly intimidating atmosphere began to press down on those in the main hall, Frey and Tully alike. The Young Stag looked back and motioned for Ser Brynden. The Blackfish nodded at the gesture.

"Come on, lad," Brynden told his nephew.

Edmure looked a bit confused and tried to speak, but the Lord of Riverrun shifted his posture once he saw Daveth's eyes piercing him. Not wanting to resist the Oathkeeper, Lord Edmure simply followed his uncle out of the room. The Freys exchanged glances between the King and their father, each of them wondering what will happen next. Seemingly getting the hint, Lord Walder stared up at his very large family.

"Fine," he conceded. "Out! All of you! His Grace wants to speak to me in private. Go find something useful to do!" As his sons and grandsons and daughters and bastards and nieces and nephews streamed from the hall, Walder leaned close and taps his wife on the bottom. "Oh! Yes, you too, woman. Out, out, out."

Joyeuse uncomfortably lifted her skirt and marched out, accompanying her husband's large horde of family members. Walder looked at her as he whispered into Daveth's ear whilst they both moved in front of the fireplace, licking his lips slowly.

"You see that? Seventeen, she is. A little flower. And her honey's all mine."

"I trust that she's been giving you children, my lord?"

"Bah! Depends on who you ask; though the prospect only boils my sons and daughters these past 40 years. In the end, they all just wait for me to die. Now, what do you want to say, Your Grace?"

"As I said, I need to cross the Trident and I need to do so now," Daveth reminded him.

"Quite the demanding one, aren't you, boy? How blunt of you."

For a moment, Daveth leaned in to whisper. "I can be rather 'blunt' when the situation calls for it, Lord Frey, but you will not use that sort of tone like that again. Not with me. You swore an oath to House Tully and the crown. Now, I've got another rebellion to put down, and I do not appreciate being delayed over such trivial matters."

Walder snorted. "That's the Baratheon in you talking. Huh. Fine, you asked for my help. But I want something from you in return. Give me your word and I'll let you pass."

"And tell me what it is that you want so badly?" Daveth asked, already knowing the answer.

"The fine Lord Hoster Tully's family has always pissed on me. He didn't come to my wedding before he dropped dead, nor did he come to the last one or the one before that. I outlived him as I outlived his father. He would never marry any of his children to mine. I need to get rid of sons and daughters. You saw them all just now, Your Grace. You see how they pile up?"

_'And here I thought only my father and Prince Oberyn Martell could have so many children popping out left and right,'_  the King didn't need to be reminded. "Let me guess: you wish to marry them off before the Twins get overcrowded?"

"That's one way of putting it."

"I regret that the royal family is already spoken for."

"Yes, yes, I know. You married a Stark girl, your sister's set to marry a Martell and your brother's set to marry a Tyrell," Walder scowled irritably, his face wrinkled up as he turned to face Daveth directly. "Years ago, I went to Tully and suggested a match between his son and my daughter. Why not? I had a daughter in mind, sweet girl, only a few years older than Edmure. I had others he might have had: young ones, old ones, virgins, widows, whatever he wanted. No, Hoster would not hear of it."

"And for that you feel you've been slighted; insulted, even."

"Bah! Call it what you will, boy. I know when I've been slighted," he threw his hands up in exasperation as he sat down. "The Seven Kingdoms won't stop singing songs about you, and my house has been laughed at by everyone else. What makes you different than any of them?"

Daveth leaned in, staring Walder Frey in the eyes. "Because unlike  _some_  houses that puts the whims of its sons and daughters first, I put the needs of my family ahead of my own. As the King, the Great Houses and lesser houses are like one,  _very big_  family. Their safety and well-being is of utmost paramount. And unlike  _many_  lords, when  _I_  make a promise,  _I_  keep it. On that, Lord Frey,  _you have my word_."

Lord Walder glared back at the King, crossing his arms as he smirked. "Pulling out that card on me, Your Grace? Who'd be a fool to deny the legendary Oathkeeper when he says that? 'You have my word.' Sounds like you mirror the Lannisters and their debts," he cackled. "All right, then. You have my attention, Your Grace."

With that, Daveth leaned back and played his cards. "You mentioned about wanting to marry off one of your daughters?"

"Aye, I did. What of it?"

"I believe I might have found a solution to your problems, Lord Frey, one that should resolve most of your problems. And more… if you're interested."

Walder raised an eyebrow and slowly leaned in. "What do you have in mind?"

The rest of the day involved a lot of haggling. A swollen red sun hung low against the western hills. It was going to be a lot of negotiation, but Daveth remained confident that he'll get what he wants in the end.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

The swollen red sun was starting to hang low against the western hills the large royal army stood outside the gates of the Twins, waiting for their King to return. When they saw Edmure and the Blackfish emerge from outside rather early, it left many people rather curious. What was going on in there? Why was the Lord of Riverrun kicked out? Did something go wrong? If so, they believe they might have to storm the castle and take the Twins by force—but Sers Barristan Selmy and Jaime Lannister told them to stay put.

"Something's rather odd," a Baratheon soldier quipped. "The King's been in there quite a long time."

A Riverland militiaman chimed in. "I agree. Something doesn't seem right."

"Cut the chatter, you two," Jaime interrupted. "Trust in the King's judgment. Believe me, he'll pull through."

"Why should the Kingslayer have a say in ordering us when his own father ordered attacks on our land? Such a disgrace!"

Jaime frowned at being called that, though Ser Lucius Blackmyre stepped in.

"That's enough, boys! What happened occurred two years ago. Hanging onto old wounds like this resolves nothing but breed further resentment and suspicion. We are at war! We cannot fight amongst ourselves when the enemy is at our gates."

As the back and forth squabbling were traded, all talks soon ceased when they saw the gates of the Twins opening up and the drawbridge itself creaking down, the portcullis winched up. The royal forces looked on as they saw King Daveth riding out with Walder Rivers and Lothar Frey. Judging by the look on his face, the negotiations were rather successful. Behind the Young Stag was a long column of pikemen, rank on rank of shuffling men in blue steel ringmail and silvery grey cloaks.

Edmure and the Blackfish galloped out to meet Daveth, stopping in front of him.

"Well?" the Lord of Riverrun beseeched. "What did he say?"

"It is done," Daveth announced.

Lothar rode up beside the King. "Our father has instructed us to tell you that he has granted your crossing. Our men are at your disposal."

"1,100 infantrymen and archers," Black Walder told them. "The remaining 400 will stay here to guard your rear flanks should the ironborn pursue you."

Ser Brynden scratched his chin. "I'm rather surprised that the Late Lord Walder Frey decided to cooperate. What exactly did you say to him, Your Grace?"

Before any could open their mouths to speak, they looked behind the King and noticed a younger Frey carrying a large set of baggage jogging towards them, being rather careful so as not to drop exactly what he was carrying. By the look on his face, he was rather anxious but rather excited and prideful.

"I will be taking on Lord Walder's eighteenth son Olyvar Frey as my personal squire and will foster him at King's Landing. He will be coming with us," Daveth announced. "If he serves well, he will be knighted as a reward for his loyal service. All in good time, of course."

Olyvar Frey excitedly looked at the Young Stag. "Words alone can't express how honored I am to be picked, Your Grace. I swear I won't disappoint you."

"See to it that you don't."

By that time, Jaime approached his nephew. "A squire, hmm? Fine, that's fine. What else did the old man say?"

At that, Daveth turned to look at Edmure. The Lord of Riverrun turned and saw all eyes are glued on him now.

"What?" he asked.

Daveth looked at Black Walder and motioned him forward. The Frey bastard leaned into the Lord of Riverrun's face and delivered the ultimatum.

"When the fighting is done, Lord Edmure Tully is to marry one of Lord Frey's daughters. Roslin."

Gasps and a few chuckles were heard among the royal forces. Here he was, Lord Edmure Tully—son of the deceased Lord Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and ruler of the Riverlands—being forced into arranged marriage without his knowledge or his consent. His sights were still glued to the lowered down drawbridge and opened gates.

"His Grace examined each of our sisters rather thoroughly to see which of them would be a suitable match for the Lord of Riverrun," Lothar explained. "It would put father's heart at peace if he could see her wed to a good husband. And he is wary of long engagements."

"Father is old," Black Walder stated plainly.

Edmure felt himself stuttering. "Uh, no I will not, Your Grace," he bluntly refuses.

Lothar and Black Walder frowned.

"Yes, you will," Daveth insisted.

"Why should I have to marry one of that old ferret's daughters? At the very least, I should've been consulted about this. Seven hells,  _I'm_  his liege lord for crying out loud!" he complained before looking at Lothar and Black Walder. "How old is Roslin?"

"Our sister is 19," they answered.

"Could I see her first?"

"You want to count her teeth?" Black Walder countered.

Lothar pressed the issue. "Our father needs an answer; otherwise he will not permit the Tully forces from crossing."

_'And that would be an exorbitant waste of soldiers, lost because one man stubbornly refuses to obey his king,'_  thought Daveth as his eyes remained set on Edmure.

"I must say I'm very insulted by this act, Your Grace," he continued complaining. "The laws of gods and men are very clear. No man can compel another man to marry!"

His uncle Ser Brynden grabbed Edmure by his collar and got right in his face. "The laws of my fist are about to compel your teeth in a minute, boy."

"He's wanted me for one of his daughters since I was 12!"

"Now you listen to me very carefully, Lord Edmure," Daveth chimed in, his voice once again being calm, flat and uncaring as his grandfather's. "We are in the middle of a war. The best way of making formal alliance isn't by force. The best way is through marriage. And it is past time you were wed. And personally, I am getting  _this close_  to losing my patience. The ironborn continue to hold onto Moat Cailin and Balon Greyjoy keeps us locked in a stranglehold. I'm done haggling for the day, I'm tired and I will  _not_  go back and forth and keep our forces standing around like a mob of headless chicken."

"I had hoped for something less… permanent, Your Grace…"

"'Family. Duty. Honor,'" the Young Stag recited.

Edmure was silenced as he looked at the King; his uncle, the Blackfish, on the other hand, briefly nodded his head as he knew what those words meant.

"These are the words of your house, one that every Tully child understands. Your own sister Catelyn knows that. Do you mean to tell me that family, duty and honor mean absolutely nothing to you? What would your father say if he were still alive?" Daveth questioned.

The Lord of Riverrun looked back and forth, exchanging glances between the King, his uncle and the Freys. All eyes were on him, and the pressure was mounting.

"Do you consent?" asked Lother and Black Walder.

Edmure hated being backed into a corner and he hated that King Daveth went behind his back to arrange a match for him. Hell, Daveth's a Baratheon not a Tully! But somewhere Edmure knew exactly what his deceased father would say if he ever learned of his son and heir's stubborn refusal. Ser Brynden knew as well, for it caused him to be labeled 'Blackfish' for several decades following the War of the Ninepenny Kings. Feeling out of options, Edmure threw his hands in the air.

"Fine, I consent. I'll marry her…"

The answer seemed to satisfy Lothar and Black Walder.

"Excellent," they smiled. "We'll go inform our father. You may now cross and march to battle."

Daveth nodded and watched them return to the Twins.

"I know it doesn't seem fair, but you'll thank me for this in the end, Lord Edmure," he simply told him. "You have my word."

Edmure said nothing, instead choosing to follow from behind. The assembled army was once again on the move. They crossed as the sun's reflection floated upon the Green Fork of the Trident. The double column wound its way through the gate of the eastern twin like a great steel snake, slithering across the courtyard, into the keep and over the bridge, to issue forth once more from the second castle on the west bank.

Daveth rode with the vanguard, with his uncle Ser Jaime Lannister, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Ser Barristan Selmy and his newly-attained squire Olyvar Frey. Behind him followed an army of 89,100 men: infantrymen, knights, cavalry, and archers. Some were mounted on their horses, other marched on foot. It took hours for them all to cross the Trident. Afterward, the Young Stag would remember the clatter of countless hooves on the drawbridge, the sight of Lord Walder Frey in his litter watching them pass, the glitter of eyes peering down through the slats of the murder holes in the ceiling as they rode through the Water Tower.

For good or ill, the Young Stag had played his cards and was now more than ready to fight.

_'Be ready to reap what you sow, Greyjoys,'_  he thought to himself.  _'For this stag has teeth and claws to go with his sharp antlers.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kind of a tense moment at the Twins, wasn't it? Having to deal with stubborn people and running on a scheduled timesheet and not wanting to waste any energy unnecessarily with constant bickering. Was the decision Daveth made the right one? How do you think this will affect the relationship he has with the men under his command and the lords who follow him? Thoughts? Let me know.


	46. Liberation of Deepwood Motte

* * *

**In the North…**

* * *

Spearpoints shone in the light of the rising sun as the Northmen splinter force marched northwest towards their destination. All along the verges of grass were glistening with the morning frost, indicating that the weather itself was slowly starting to change, however it was an aspect that every the Northmen, old and young alike, were all too familiar with – whereas their adversaries had not been accustomed to; the environmental changes would most likely play a role in the battle that is to come. Under the command of Lord Galbart Glover, the small Northern retaliation forces numbered around 4,000 men with each soldier wearing the banners of Houses Glover, Mormont, Forrester, Tallhart and Glenmore respectively. Between Deepwood Motte and Winterfell lay one hundred leagues of forest, the Wolfswood. Three hundred miles as ravens fly above it. The forest itself was settled by crofters, foresters and hunters. Overall, the Wolfswood forest is thinly populated, wild and untamed.

At Deepwood Motte, Galbart Glover's maester entered the room and delivers Yara Greyjoy a message from her uncle Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy informing her that several mainlanders were advancing on her position whilst the bulk of the Northern vanguard under the command of Lord Robb Stark was advancing on Moat Cailin; also, she learned that King Daveth I Baratheon crossed the Trident and was rapidly moving on Moat Cailin from the south.

_'An attack from the northern front by the Young Wolf, accompanied by a strike from the south by the Young Stag; all this while a token force closes in on our doorstep. This is poison that I hold. I ought to burn it,'_  realized Yara as she set her goblet of wine down onto the table. "There will be no answer," she informed the maester.

Her hostages, Robett's wife Lady Sybell, all but lived in her godswood, praying with her children for her husband's safe return from the Ten Towers; another prayer likely to go unanswered. Her heart tree is as deaf and blind as the Drowned God. Lord Galbart Glover was likely furious after hearing what was going on in his absence and led the Northmen forces on Deepwood Motte himself. The moon was almost full, the night so clear that she could see the mountains, their peaks crowned with snow. Cold and bleak and inhospitable, but beautiful in the moonlight. Their summits glimmered pale and jagged as a row of sharpened teeth. The foothills and the smaller peaks were lost in shadow.

One of Yara's men, Tristifer Botley, turned to her. "Torrhen's Square has fallen. Now it will be our turn."

"And what of the Cleftjaws?" she asked.

"Scattered without a fight. The greenland Northmen understand the frozen terrain better than we ever could."

"Then we stand alone."

"Dagmer will smash them," Tris insisted. "They are only wolves."

"Wolves who are at their strongest when travelling with their packs. 4,000 of them, and only 200 of us."

"So?" said Cromm. "We should join the fight. Why should the others have all the glory for themselves?"

_'They've given up all hope of victory,'_  Yara realized glumly.  _'All they look for now is a good death. The wolves, stags and lions would give them that, no doubt.'_  She looked at her men sternly. "We're at our best on the seas, not on the mainland."

The sea was closer, only five leagues north, but Yara could not see it. Too many hills stood in the way. And trees, so many trees. The wolfswood, the Northmen named the forest. Most nights you could hear the wolves, calling to each other through the dark. An ocean of leaves. Would it were an ocean of water.

Deepwood Motte was an old castle, but not a strong one. She had taken it from the Glovers, and they would take it back from her. Princess Yara Greyjoy had no intention of being taken captive. She would die as she had lived, with an axe in her hand and a laugh upon her lips. Her father had given her 30 longships to capture Deepwood Motte. Four remained, counting her own  _Black Wind_  vessel, and one of those belonged to Tris Botley, who had joined her when all her other men were fleeing.

***BAM! BAM!***

Yara could hear commotion outside and went to investigate. By the time she arrived on the scene, she could see one man was dead. His blood and brains crusted one her men's axes. The second was still breathing raggedly, though a spear had pinned him to the ground in a spreading pool of blood. Both were clad in boiled leather and mottled cloaks of brown and green and black, with branches, leaves, and brush sewn about their heads and shoulders.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Wha… what does it matter?" the wounded man replied.

"You are speaking to Princess Yara of House Greyjoy. You're in my castle."

"Deepwood Motte… belongs to House Glover. This is… not your home, squids."

"Are there any more of you?" Asha demanded of him. When he did not answer, she seized Grimtongue's spear and turned it, and the northerner cried out in anguish as more blood gushed from his wound. "What was your purpose here?"

"The lady," he said, shuddering. "Gods, we come for the lady. T' rescue her. It was just us five."

Yara looked into his eyes. When she saw the falsehood there, she leaned upon the spear, twisting it. "How many more?" she said. "Tell me, or I'll make your dying last until the dawn."

"Many. Thousands. 4,000… aieeee… Won't be long now…"

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

The warnhorn cried out, long and low, a sound to curdle blood. Yara had begun to hate the sound of horns; on Old Wyk, her uncle's hellhorn had blown a death kneel for her dreams and now her men were sounding like it might as well be their last hours on earth.

"To the walls!" Yara told her men.

"It's too late… The North… remembers—" the wounded northern scout spoke, before one of the ironborn thrusted their spears through his mouth, silencing him permanently.

Yara turned her own steps for the nearest watchtower, with Tris Botley right behind her. The wooden watchtower was the tallest thing this side of the mountains, rising 20 feet above the biggest sentinels and soldier pines in the surrounding wolfwood. Yara squinted her eyes and saw a horde of Northmen vastly approaching Deepwoode Motte, banners bearing the sigils of different houses and lit torches lighting up the darkness. 4,000 mainlanders against the ironborn's 200…

"We can't fight that many Greenlanders," pointed out Tris.

Cromm, however, remained unnerved. "We can fight as many as come, pup. The more there are, the more the glory. Men will sing battle songs of us for generations."

"But will they sing of your courage or our folly?"

"Come the dawn we will feast beneath the sea."

"If we die with dry feet, how will we find our way to the Drowned God's watery halls?"

"All of them rivers here lead to the sea."

Yara was not ready to die, not here, not yet. "A living man can find the sea more easily than a dead one. So long as we can hold Moat Cailin, let the wolves keep their woods and cold weather. We can always come back. For now, we're making for the ships."

"What?!" exclaimed Cromm.

She wondered who was in command of her foes. If anything, Yara would have taken the strand and put her ships to the torch before attacking Deepwood Motte. The Northmen would not find it that easy, not without ships of their own. Yara never beached more than half her ships. The other half stood safely off to sea, with orders to raise sail and make for Sea Dragon Point if the northmen took the strand.

"Hagen, blow your horn and make the forest shake. Tris, don some mail, it's time you tried out that sweet sword of yours." When Yara saw how pale Tris was, she pinched his cheek. "Splash some blood upon the moon with me, and I promise you with a kiss for every kill."

"But Princess, here we have the walls. What happens if we reach the sea and find the Northmen have taken our ships or driven them away…?"

"Then we die," she finished cheerfully, "but at least we'll die with our feet wet. Ironborn fight better with salt spray in our noses and the sound of the waves at our backs."

Another of Yara's men blew three short blasts in quick succession, the signal that would send the ironborn back to their ships. From below came shouting, the clatter of spear and sword, the whinnying of horses. Too few horses and too few riders. Asha headed for the stair. In the bailey, she found Qarl the Maid waiting with her chestnut mare, her warhelm, and her throwing axes. Ironmen were leading horses from Galbart Glover's stables.

"A ram!" a voice shouted down from the walls. "They have a battering ram!"

"Which gate?"

"The north!" From beyond Deepwood's mossy wooden walls came the sudden sound of trumpets. Trumpets? Wolves with trumpets? That was wrong, but Yara had no time to ponder it.

"Open the south gate," she commanded, even as the north gate shook to the impact of the ram. She pulled a short-hafted throwing axe from the belt across her shoulder. "The hour of the owl has fled, my brothers. Now comes the hour of the spear, the sword, the axe. Form up. We're going home."

From a hundred throats came roars of "Home!" and "Yara Greyjoy!" Tris Botley galloped up on a tall stallion. The ironborn closed about each other, hefting shields, swords, axes and spears, a rain of arrows began flying overhead and into the fortress.

***WHOOSH!***

***WHIP!***

***BAM!***

One of Yara's men, Argoth Marrick, was hit in the throat with a passing arrow. He began gurgling blood before more arrows rained down upon the fleeing ironborn as they moved to make for the ships at the shore of Sea Dragon Point. They fought in the predawn gloom, shadow against shadow, stumbling over roots and rocks, with mud and rotting leaves beneath their feet. Half of Yara's forces were thrown off their horses as arrows hit their mounts, mortally wounding them or incapacitating them.

"Don't let them get away!" shouted Lord Gregor Forrester. The Lord of Ironrath and Defender of the Ironwood Groves, the Forresters were the vassals of House Glover chosen by Lord Galbart Glover to lead the vanguard.

The first Northman to come at Yara Greyjoy was a Glover soldier who died at her feet with her throwing an axe which hit him between the eyes. That gave her respite enough to gather her wits before another Northman armed with an axe loomed up before her, swinging with both hands as he howled in wordless fury. Yara dodged effortlessly and shoved her dirk in his guts, twisting the blade before pulling out and gouging out his eyes. She spun and found another behind her, and slashed him across the face beneath his helm – albeit he nearly

"The crimes you ironborn have committed against the North won't go unpunished!"

The horses screamed and kicked and rolled their eyes in terror, maddened by the butchery and blood. Tris gripped the saddle of his horse; the stallion was rearing and wheeling as Tris swung his spiked club left and right against the oncoming Northmen.

"Four," as one went down. "Five. Six, seven," he shouted.

More Northmen just kept on coming, and more ironborn kept getting slain. Their numbers were rapidly dropping. Yara Greyjoy knew they wouldn't last long so long as they remained on the shore. She looked onto the distance and saw her warships and beached oars. She didn't know how long they've been running, but if the ironborn could make it back to their ships – they could very well make their escape. Or even turn the tide against the Northmen, by utilizing each deck's trebuchets and scorpions. Yara pushed her dirk into a Glenmore soldier's chest through fur and wool and boiled leather. His face was so close to hers that she could almost smell the sour stench of his breath, and his hand was at her throat. Yara felt iron scrapping against bone as her point slid against a rib before sliding through. Then the man shuddered and died. When she let go of him, Yara pushed him off of her as her ships were within range.

"Back to the boats! Quickly!" she yelled.

The remaining ironborn had scrambled back to the oars, en route to  _Black Wind_. What had originally started as a 200 occupation force was drastically reduced to a mere 70. Heavily outnumbered and forced to abandon their prize. The Northmen had only lost almost 100 men, but their numbers were still vastly superior. As some of her men began getting their feet into the waters, jumping onto the oars, Princess Yara Greyjoy stood side-by-side with Cromm, listening to the grunts and curses all around them, to brave men crawling through the shadows weeping for their mothers. A Mormont soldier drove at her with a spear long enough to punch through her belly and Cromm's back as well, pinning them together as they died. Cromm killed the spearman before he reached her. A heartbeat later a Glover soldier badly wounded Cromm, driving an axe into his right flank.

"Damn you all," Cromm chocked as he fell to his knees.

Yara wrenched loose a throwing axe and sent it flying end over end to take out Glover, Forrester and Tallhart soldiers coming at her. When she finally felt water at her ankles, Yara seized her chances and climb aboard the nearest oars with what remained of her men and began rowing to the  _Black Wind_. Yara watched as the Northmen gathering at Sea Dragon Point, either finishing off whatever ironborn stragglers who failed to make it to the oars in time or taking them as prisoners, but it didn't matter to the ironborn. They refused to be taken alive and still put up a fierce fight. In the end, all who resisted were killed. And all Yara could do was to do nothing but watch.

_'191 of my men are gone, and for what? All for some pinecones and rocks?'_  she bitterly thought to herself.

Climbing aboard the  _Black Wind_ , Yara Greyjoy watched as her surviving crew tended to their wounds. Some cursed the Northmen and wanted to fight, but so long as Yara was in charge she had the final say. Glancing over her shoulder, Yara could see the Northmen in the distance – glaring at her. Momentarily glancing into the seas, the moonlight's reflection bouncing off the surface, Yara looked back at the mainland and felt her hands tightening.

"Load the spitfires," Yara commanded. "Bombard the mainlanders."

The surviving ironborn each ran up to the  _Black Wind_  deck and started carrying oil-covered stones, lit them on fire and… one-by-one, propelled them upwards and over aimed directly at the pursuing Northmen.

***BAM!***

***CRASH!***

***BOOM!***

Explosion after explosion, the ironborn watched as the Northmen screamed and shouted, scurrying about trying to avoid the fireballs hurled at them. There were also weren't enough men to sail the remaining longships, so Yara instructed her crew to burn the other three to prevent the Northmen from seizing them to use against them. As the flames coated the mainland and the remaining ships began sinking into the ocean depths, Yara pushed herself off the edge of the  _Black Wind_  and made her way up the stairs to the ship's wheel.

"What are our rations, captain?"

"We've well enough for our voyage to the Iron Islands, Princess. Luckily, our glorious plunder should be able to last us for about two weeks."

Yara nodded. "Bring us back to port at Pyke, captain."

"Princess?"

"I said  _bring us back to port at Pyke_. I need to have a word with my father, the Kraken King."

The ironborn captain begrudgingly nodded and steered the  _Black Wind_  around the western coast of the North, planning an estimated safe route to the Iron Islands and avoid any contact with enemy ships if possible. As she left to her private chambers, Yara sat on one of her hammocks and placed one arm over her brow.

"Theon…" she whispered almost in a sad tone. "Where are you?"

* * *

**At Moat Cailin…**

* * *

***BOOM!***

***CRASH!***

****

It was a stormy night. Rain battered the ancient fortress of Moat Cailin, thunder boomed across the skies and lightning struck the ground with tremendous force. Inside, the ironborn scrambled into their positions. Among them, only one maintained his composure. Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy.

Nearly a month ago, he had already received word of Robb Stark the Young Wolf and most of his bannermen had sailed around to White Harbor with the Royal Fleet's assistance and was already en route to strike Moat Cailin from the north. Elsewhere, Victarion learned of Daveth Baratheon's march up the Neck to attack from the south. A pincer movement, the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet learned. Victarion had only lost once against Stannis Baratheon during his brother Balon's first rebellion, but vowed to never let it happen again.

He had already fought off gruella-style hit-and-run tactics from the local Crannogmen, but refused his men to begin pursuing them. Victarion knew from a tactical standpoint that the Crannogmen had proven time and time again that they were notoriously difficult to conquer and knew the terrain. They never sat in one place for too long. Even if the swamp and bog indeed held water for the ironborn to navigate through, if the Crannogmen didn't kill the ironborn with their poisoned-tip weaponry first, then the carnivorous, reptilian creatures such as sea serpents and lizard-lions as well as the terrain itself most definitely will. Those who tried found that out the hard way.

Being a capable commander, Victarion knew how strategically important Moat Cailin was to the ironborn occupation. Even if the fortress had degraded over time and only three towers remained standing, Moat Cailin is still the lynch-pin of the defense of the North from any invasion from the south. So long as they held the fortress, the North was still technically considered under ironborn rule. And Victarion Greyjoy was not willing to give up his well-deserved prize without a fight. After all, he had most of the Iron Fleet off shore – near Saltspear and the Fever River. But to make the necessary preparations for a military strategy from his enemies, Victarion had to reinforce both the northern and southern flanks of Moat Cailin.

"Won't be long now," he mused. "Soon they will be in for a fight of their lives."

"What is dead may never die," one of his captains recited.

"What is dead may never die. But rises again, harder and stronger. The Drowned God will lead us to victory against the greenlanders."

It was a while later before his captain, Red Ralf Stonehouse returned.

"Contact from the north!"

"Contact from the south!" another shouted.

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

As the warhorn cried, long and low, a sound to curdle blood, Victarion Greyjoy observed both sides of the fortress and saw assembled armies marching towards them. Robb Stark and Daveth Baratheon were now visibly in range. Unsheathing his axe, Victarion began barking orders at his men.

"SPEARS AND SHIELDS!" he roared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first wave of the counterattack took place. Deepwood Motte was liberated and now the battle of Moat Cailin was now officially underway. Now, before there's a wave against what happened earlier, take note that veterans such as Stannis Baratheon and Jaime Lannister acknowledged that although the ironborn were fierce warriors who were unparalleled at sea, they weren't soldiers and lacked both discipline and strategy. Regardless, I figured I'd change some things with Victarion for the next chapter since he's experienced the pincer strategy before against Stannis and Paxter Redwyne. It'll be Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark against Victarion Greyjoy. It'll be an incredibly tough fight, even for both young men. Many of you noticed how tough Victarion was and regularly compared his durability to Tormund Giantsbane so I'll keep taking notes so as to get it right. Keep sending me info so I don't get it mixed up. Thoughts? Let me know.


	47. Siege of Moat Cailin (Part 1)

* * *

**At Moat Cailin…**

* * *

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

***BOOM!***

***CRASH!***

 

As lightning bolts hit the ground, heavy rains remained battering the approaching armies as Lord Robb Stark and King Daveth Baratheon began encircling Moat Cailin, prepping their military forces for what seems to be a brutal, bloody battle. Together their combined strength numbered around 105,100 men plus the addition of siege weapons. Whilst the Northmen attacked from the northern section, the much larger southern army would strike from behind the ironborn. The plan of action was clear: retake Moat Cailin from the ironborn and drive them out; whether it is by starving them out, forcing their way inside or possibly razing the ancient fortress to the ground.

On the northern front, Robb Stark and Roose Bolton stood in front – looking on as the ironborn within the fortress moved into position. Grey Wind followed suit and stood next to his master, growling at the sight of the enemy.

"I never thought we'd actually be forced to attack this place."

"We should set the siege lines, yards from Moat Cailin," the Lord of the Dreadfort advised.

Robb shook his head. "There won't be a siege, not on our end at least. Besides, that'll take too long. The ironborn are dug in deep. And Victarion Greyjoy will likely move to counter the pincer movement after having experienced it just once."

"We have the numbers, my lord. And the ironborn don't fare well so long as they remain on the mainland away from the seas, which gives us the advantage."

"Aye. What news of your bastard son?"

"Ramsay's managed to elude being spotted by the ironborn and was last seen moving towards the Fever River with my best hunters."

The Young Wolf gripped his sword, unsheathing it. "Then that's all we'll need, Lord Bolton. The men would love a fight. I know I'd love one." He looked back at his northern vanguard before pointing the tip of his blade at Moat Cailin. "Everyone, advance on Moat Cailin! Drive the ironborn out!"

The Northmen shouted and began the charge. Elsewhere, on the southern front, King Daveth arrived with his much larger host. The Young Stag eyed Moat Cailin up and down as his Kingsguard knights rode up beside him. The ruins of Moat Cailin were visible in the distance, threaded through with wisps of morning mist as wind blew from the south. What bothered him was the sight of seeing the banners flying above the fortress displaying a golden kraken on a black field.

 

"How many are inside?" he asked.

"Our scouts have estimated that there are roughly 9,000 to 10,000 ironborn stationed within Moat Cailin, Your Grace." Lucius deduced. "They are under the command of Victarion Greyjoy, Balon's younger brother and commander of the Iron Fleet."

"I remember him. He led the surprise attack on Lannisport 11 years ago, while…" he stopped briefly before glancing back at his soldiers. "Tell me, Ser Lucius. How long do you think it'll take to set up our armament?"

"About an hour if we're lucky, maybe even two. Two and a half at best. I recommend holding at least some of our forces back away from Moat Cailin so they could get the proper siege equipment into place."

"Then let's hope the men think on their feet. Give the order."

Ser Lucius nodded and turned to the soldiers. "All right, lads! You heard your King! Get those blasted siege artilleries up! Now!"

Soldiers carrying the sigils of Baratheon, Lannister, Tarly, Tyrell, Tully, Frey, etc. scrambled as they moved to assemble the armament. However…

***BOOM!***

***BAM!***

One-by-one, fireballs were being launched from Moat Cailin and were being aimed directly at the royal host. As the troops scrambled, they noticed Victarion Greyjoy had already set up spitfires to use as defensive weapons against the mainland invaders. He looked on, smirking as the screams and shouts were echoing as more fireballs were launched into the air. Daveth was nearly thrown from his horse, steering his stallion away from the impact of the molten balls. Unsheathing his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer, Daveth growled at the ironborn's preemptive strike.

"Dammit!" he cursed. "All forces, begin the attack! Avoid the spitfires!"

***STRETCHING, TWANG!***

***WHIP!***

***WHOOSH!***

Spitfires from over the walls and a hail of arrows being shot at them through the embrasures, the royal army was getting pounded by the frontal assault as they rushed to advance forward whilst either trying to avoid the fireballs or keep their shields held high to block the arrows. Daveth stood at the vanguard with his Kingsguard knights, their boots making faint wet squelching sounds as they pulled free of the grey-green muck; his archers struggled to get off a few rounds before each got picked off one-by-one. A couple hundred men, including the King, had managed to get to the walls before they had to hold shields above their heads to avoid getting hit with arrows and stones.

Daveth felt the heavy rocks bouncing off his shield, one after another. "Ironborn cowards!" he gritted his teeth.

"We can't stay here!" shouted Jaime, glancing at the soldiers who tried to reach them.

"Get the ladders up!"

Off in the distance, the Young Stag could see several soldiers moving towards them as they carried ladders on their shoulders. Daveth looked as most were easily picked off, lit up with arrows or blown to pieces by spitfire. More of his men were dropping, and if this were to keep up before the siege weapons could be set up, their numbers would dwindle and force them to withdraw.

Inside, Victarion Greyjoy readied his battleaxe as he heard ramming sounds from the northern end.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

"The Northmen are ramming the rear gate!" shouted Ralf Kenning, one of Victarion's captains.

Victarion bellowed at his men. "Keep the wolves off our asses, or I'll wring your hides myself!"

Ralf moved to the opposite side of the fortress, leveling arrows down at the Northmen. Robb Stark was fortunate enough to move to the side as he searched for an opening as the ironborn began shooting arrows at them. Roose Bolton, meanwhile, examined the ironborn who were stationed on the battlements. Judging by their positions, he determined that the ironborn had the high ground and the walls. Although the rear was mostly considered of archers and those who threw stones, Roose noticed the heavy hitters are mostly located on the front gates where the royal army continues getting a brutal beating from the spitfires.

"There's too much resistance on the walls, my lord! The Oathkeeper's forces can't get a foothold," he informed Robb. "As long as the ironborn manning the spitfires are taken care of, the pincer strategy will fail and Moat Cailin remains under enemy control. Our archers will need to take them out from behind while we force our way in."

Robb observed as well.  _'Hang on there, Daveth!'_  he quietly murmured. "Lady Maege, bring up your archers! Front and center! Take out the ironborn manning the spitfires! Lord Umber, you and Lord Karstark keep hitting the gate!"

"Get a move on, boys!" shouted Greatjon Umber to his men. "Show 'em how it's done! Keep ramming the gates with everything you've got!"

Several archers led by Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island assembled on the northeastern front of Moat Cailin, steadily beginning to take aim at the ironborn pounding the royal forces with spitfires. Timing the direction of which way the wind was blowing, Maege shouted like an angry bear.

"Archers, on me!"

"Archers, to the line!"

A small group of Northmen archers made their way to the rear flank behind the ironborn manning the spitfires. They lined up side-by-side, bows at the ready and aimed at their assigned targets.

"Nock arrows!" Maege shouted.

"Nock!" a few repeated.

"Draw!"

***STRETCHING!***

"Loose!"

***TWANG!***

Immediately in sync with one another, Maege Mormont's archers began firing a barrage of arrows over the walls of Moat Cailin. A couple landed inside, hitting most ironborn and against wooden objects inside the fortress.

***BAM!***

Three ironborn atop the battlements were hit, but were still able to remain standing. Victarion Greyjoy turned and noticed the direction where the arrows were coming from. Immediately, the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet began ordering some of his men to the battlements.

"Get the fuck up here!" he roared. "Take out that She-Bear, now!"

The ironborn raiders nocked their arrows, taking aim at Maege Mormont and her archers. The Lady of Bear Island saw them bearing down at her, snarling as she readied herself to take a hit. However…

***BAM!***

One of the arrows on the opposing side struck three ironborn in the backs, each screamed as they stumbled towards the edge of the battlements before falling off – hitting the ground with a loud, hard "thud".

"Draw! Loose!" shouted one of the royal commanders.

More arrows came from the southern side of Moat Cailin's walls, hitting the edges of the battlements, embedding themselves in the arms, shoulders and upper torso of each ironborn. Whenever one group would turn to attack the other, it left their backs completely exposed. Daveth still held his shield above his head, deflecting stones and heavy rocks as more of his troops began getting closer with the ladders.

"Your Grace!" shouted Olyvar Frey, who rushed to Daveth's side. By the look on his face, it was his first time experiencing such a brutal battle. He ran as fast as he possibly could and was trying to catch his breath.

Ser Barristan finally made it to the wall, taking cover under one of the men's shields. "The ladders are almost here, Your Grace! Our men on the northern front are keeping the ironborn distracted long enough to take some of the pressure off of us!"

"Gah! We still need to take out the spitfires!" Daveth strained under the pressure. His left arm was starting to get sore after having to hold up so long against so many stones hurled at him. He briefly looked at one of his fallen Lannister archers, and noticed a green substance pouring from the back pocket along with one spare leather wrapping used for arrowheads. "Ser Barristan!" he called out. "I have an idea!"

"What are you up to, Your Grace?"

"Just trust me! Keep the ironborn off me for a few seconds!"

Before the old Kingsguard knight could reply, Daveth disregarded his shield and ran after the dead archer's bow and arrow.

"Your Grace!" his men shouted after him.

Dodging arrows and fireballs launched from the spitfires left and right, Daveth spun and turned like his life depended on it. It was a crazy plan, he admitted, but his men were getting nowhere until the ladders could reach the walls of Moat Cailin and start climbing. The Northmen on the opposite side continued ramming against the north gate, albeit several were starting to take casualties. His side was enduring the worst of it. Briefly looking over his shoulder, Daveth noticed the barrels the ironborn were using to ignite the fireballs used by their spitfires. It was quite a distance, but if Daveth could hit just one of the barrels, then theoretically the whole thing could ignite.

Finally reaching the dead Lannister archer's weaponry, Daveth picked up the bow – narrowly missing an arrow aimed directly at his face. His flinched only once, but quickly regained his composure and picked up several arrows and dipped them into the green substance and wrapped the tip of each arrow. Back at the walls, Jaime watched what his nephew was doing and realized what the substance was.

"Wildfire…" he murmured.

Olyvar could barely hear what the Kingslayer said. "What?"

Not even bothering to answer, Jaime Lannister began shouting at the men. "Everyone! Fall back! Archers, keep the ironborn away from the King!"

"Fall back!" the soldiers started shouting.

"Protect the King!"

"Retreat!"

"Fall back!"

"Over here, you yellow-bellied ironborn bastards!"

"Come and get me!"

Back on the northern front, Robb Stark groaned as he assisted Greatjon Umber and Rickard Karstark in ramming the northern gates. Blow after blow, the gate was tough. As they prepared to charge again, one of Robb's scouts ran up to him.

"The royal forces are pulling back!"

Robb quickly looked at him in surprise. "What?" he said in seemingly disbelief. "Daveth, what are you doing?! If we don't breach both sides of Moat Cailin at the same time, the battle is lost!"

The ironborn operating the spitfires watched on as the mainland forces attacking the south gate seemingly run away, causing some of them to start laughing manically.

"Look at them go!" shouted Dagon Codd.

Harren Botley laughed. "What is dead may never die!"

Victarion noticed the commotion as more of his men shot at and killed some of the Stark forces' archers, but once he saw Daveth Baratheon standing by himself in the middle of a field – bow and arrow in hand ready to fire – the Lord Captain barely had enough time to react as one arrow whooshed past his face, hitting a wooden pillar behind him. He noticed one of the arrows had a bright green flame on the tip of the arrow and began barking more orders at his men.

"You there! Take out the Young Stag!" he yelled.

Back down below, Maege Mormont was down to her last three archers. They had taken aim at the men operating the spitfires, firing one shot after another. One of her men was lucky enough to hit one of them in the back of the head, the noise echoed a sickening crack as the ironborn slumped to the ground and fell off the ledge.

 

"Gods, persistent bunch of krakens!" shouted Maege.

"Mother!"

The Lady of Bear Island turned to notice her daughter, Dacey Mormont, coming to her aid. The eldest daughter and heir to Maege's lands, Dacey was just as much of a warrior like her mother on the battlefield and a beautiful young woman. She picked up a bow and fired an arrow at an ironborn who had been taking aim at Maege, striking the ironborn in the throat. Dacey watched him clutching his throat, gurgling blood as he fell off the ledge. Maege turned to notice what was occurring behind her and returned to embrace her daughter.

"Ha-ha-ha! That's my girl!" she praised.

Dacey examined Maege. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

"Bah! You're mama bear's as strong as they come! Come, let's drive these bastards out!"

"Yes, mother!"

Back at the front, Daveth was lucky enough to have avoided some of the arrows being fired directly at him. He was already down to his last two shots, and he couldn't tell whether or not he was hitting his target from this far away. Pulling on both the arrow and bowstring with his index, middle fingers and thumb, Daveth closed his left eye and aimed straight up before releasing.

***STRETCHING, TWANG!***

Another arrow shot past Victarion's face, but when he turned he noticed exactly where the Young Stag was aiming. He was aiming for the flaming barrels used for the spitfires! If any of the green-flame tipped arrows hit, the whole thing could ignite and blow up!

"KILL HIM!" Victarion shouted. "KILL HIM NOW!"

More hail of arrows came pouring down, forcing Daveth to change his position. As he turned to duck behind cover behind a ruined pillar near the ancient fortress, just small and wide enough to provide cover. But before he could hide behind it, Daveth felt a sharp pain shoot throughout his body.

***THUD!***

***BAM!***

"GAAAH!" he shouted. Daveth gritted his teeth, hissing as he shut his eyes in agony before looking down to notice three armor-piercing arrows had pierced through his armor and embedded themselves in his right shoulder, left pectoral and external abdominal oblique. Seven hells, it hurt so badly!

"He's wounded!" he heard one of his men on the hilltop exclaim.

He heard another one shout, "The King's been hit!"

"Hurry! Protect the King!"

Daveth breathed in and out quickly, a combination of pain and adrenaline shooting throughout his body. Still gritting his teeth, Daveth tightly gripped his bow and his last remaining arrow. Footsteps came rushing towards him; the Young Stag turned to notice Ser Barristan Selmy running towards him.

"You're putting yourself in harm's way too much, Your Grace! It's too risky!" he warned. "What are you trying to prove?"

"We all know the costs of failure," Daveth ignored his former mentor and tightened his grip around the bowstring. "Look, there's a cache of barrels up there which is susceptible to heat exposure. If we can hit just one of them, then the barrels should explode and get rid of the ironborn's spitfire weaponry, allowing our men to get the ladders up and gain us entry to allow Robb Stark and his men inside to complete the pincer movement."

"If that's the plan, then let me take the shot. Look, I'm not trying to demean you or anything, Your Grace, but you have three arrows lodged in you and if you get careless our cause against the ironborn is lost."

Daveth said nothing, but begrudgingly handed over the bow and arrow whilst he broke off the arrows in his body. Barristan, eyeing Moat Cailin's battlements and observing the direction the wind was blowing, pulled the bowstring back – his aim as straight as an arrow, closed one eye and launched the final arrow.

***STRETCHING! TWANG!***

Straight and true, Barristan shot the arrow from such a far distance over the walls of Moat Cailin. Inside, Victarion Greyjoy observed as the arrow rapidly approaching its target. Eyeing its destined path, Victarion grabbed his two-handed battleaxe and jumped onto the ground from the top floor.

"Incoming!" he yelled.

Before any of the ironborn on the battlements could react, the flaming arrow pierced the barrels used by the spitfire siege weapons. Serving as ignition, it was only a matter of time before Daveth's theory proved correct.

***KABOOM!***

With a force capable sending any nearby ironborn flying in every direction and catching those unfortunate on fire, the upper battlements lit up the sky which originally started as reddish-orange hue only for it to be largely replaced by a bright green flame which leapt at any unlucky ironborn caught in its path, shrieking like nothing human. Below, Robb Stark and most of his troops looked up and saw black smoke and swirling green fire – accompanied by shrieks and screams. Briefly looking down, he could see in the distance Barristan Selmy and a wounded Daveth Baratheon coming out of cover. How was this part of the plan? And if so, when and where did his childhood friend/brother-in-law acquire wildfire?

***BAM!***

****

***CRASH! CRUMBLING!***

A loud noise soon broke his concentration. Robb looked back and saw the northern gate had been successfully smashed off its hinges. Amongst the loud cheering and gesturing amongst the Northmen, Robb Stark was approached by one of his soldiers.

"My lord, the northern gate has been breached!" informed Harrion Karstark, eldest son and heir of Rickard Karstark. "With your leave, we can force our way into Moat Cailin and open the gates on the southern end!"

Robb nodded. "Understood. Men! Inside! Get the other gate open!" he shouted.

Grey Wind snarled and charged inside, taking out multiple ironborn left and right. They had never seen a direwolf before, and it would be the last. Standing above them stood Victarion Greyjoy, armed to the teeth. Wielding his enormous battleaxe, Victarion swung at seven Northmen in one swing before glaring at Robb Stark.

"Don't think you can get past me, boy! The true fight is about to begin once your stag friend gets here. After all… what is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger!" he bellowed.

 

Robb unsheathed his sword and stood his ground, assuming the battle stance. He was determined on keeping the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet's attention solely focused on him as both Harrion and his brother Torrhen Karstark managed to sneak behind Victarion to try and lift the barricade on the southern end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This completes part one of the Siege of Moat Cailin. Like I did with the Battle of the Blackwater event, the next chapter will include part two which will involve a tag team matchup with Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy against Lord Robb Stark and King Daveth I Baratheon. Apparently one side endured a heavy beating straight out of the gate. As it stands right now, the mainland forces attacking from the south suffered 9% casualty rate (9,459 out of 105,100 men) – equivalent to the losses the Allies took during the Invasion of Normandy during World War II. And with the Young Stag receiving three arrow wounds during the first attempt to blow up the ironborn's spitefire caches, how do you think the fight with the kraken alongside the Young Wolf will affect the overall battle? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> Q: WHAT IS 9% OF 105,100?
> 
> _x_ = _9_  
> 105,100 100
> 
> 100x = 945,900
> 
> X = 9,459
> 
> (I remembered how much I hate doing anything involving math… Correct me if I made an error.)


	48. Siege of Moat Cailin (Part 2)

* * *

**During the siege at Moat Cailin…**

* * *

Robb Stark stood toe-to-toe with Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy, with his direwolf Grey Wind at his side. The beast snarled at the large ironborn, bearing his teeth, wrinkling his snout and sticking his eats low and out to the sides. As Robb maintained a firm grip on his longsword, Victarion sized up the Young Wolf; with his hands gripping his large, two-handed battleaxe, the Lord Captain was gearing up for a ferocious fight.

    
 

***RUMBLE!***

***BOOM! CRACKLE!***

The sound of rain and thunder still battered the landscape, ignoring the sounds and shrieks of any ironborn engulfed in wildfire. Wooden pillars lit aflame were starting to collapse, smaller stones were getting pushed out of place with every impact the royal siege weapon's made. It wasn't long before the ironborn stationed on the walls started getting hit with arrows the moment the ladders were raised. Down onto the ground, both Harrion and Torrhen Karstark were straining themselves trying to lift the heavy bar off the southern main gate to allow King Daveth's forces entry as a few started climbing the walls. Other royal forces trying to climb the ladders into the ancient fortress, however, still met heavy resistance by the ironborn as some were shot off with arrows or their heads being bashed with stones.

 

"Keep pushing, brother!" shouted Harrion.

"I'm trying!" replied Torrhen.

It was a grueling effort, but the Karstark brothers—groaning and straining under the weight—managed to lift the wooden pillar off the southern main gates before tossing them open. Seizing the opportunity, Daveth, having snapped the final remaining arrow lodged into his right shoulder in half, saw the front gates opening and turned to his soldiers.

"Our allies have opened the southern gate. All forces, commence the pincer attack! Take back Moat Cailin!" Daveth commanded as his men on the ground charged through the breach.

Each soldiers of Houses Baratheon, Lannister, Tully, Tyrell, etc. formed up in a spearhead with the Young Stag at the point. Alongside the King, three of the Kingsguard knights chose to accompany him into the thick of it. Ser Barristan Selmy took the place to his right. On the left, Ser Lucius Blackmyre readied his mace. Behind him, Ser Jaime Lannister guarded his nephew's rear flank.

"Victory is within our reach!" one of the Lannister soldiers proudly exclaimed.

"Crush the ironborn!" another Baratheon man-at-arms shouted.

"Drive 'em out!"

"Moat Cailin is as good as ours!"

Daveth's squire, Olyvar Frey, was rather anxious about his first major battle – but readied himself. With his sword in hand, Olyvar steeled himself for this. More than 9,459 men were already killed during the first wave when the ironborn attacked using spitfires atop the battlements. An additional 1,400 men fell in battle. Now that they're gone, they could storm the ancient fortress from the ground while several more climbed the ladders to clear out the ironborn stationed there.

Storming through the breach, Daveth gripped Stormbringer as several ironborn raiders came charging at him. The Young Stag was able to take out his fair share, whilst Ser Barristan, Ser Lucius and Ser Jaime killed their fair share as well. Confident as he was, Daveth still felt a painful burning sensation in his shoulder. Although adrenaline kept rushing through his body, he felt as if his right arm was being weighed down due to his wounds. Even so, he remained determined to carry on the plan of attack. Finally making his way to the center of Moat Cailin, Daveth stood toe-to-toe with the ironborn commander in front of him.

"Well, well," Victarion glanced behind him. "The scared, little trophy has grown up."

"Victarion Greyjoy," Daveth glared.

Robb Stark and his direwolf Grey Wind in front, Daveth Baratheon and his Kingsguard knights from behind. Victarion Greyjoy's face remained hidden behind his kraken helm, but he grinned in excitement at facing a challenging adversary, one who'd make a suitable offering to the Drowned God. But the Lord Captain wasn't staring down the same frightened little boy he and Euron Greyjoy captured during the raid of Lannisport many years ago; rather, the Young Stag stared him directly in the eyes wielding his Valyrian steel sword pointed directly at him, the young Baratheon's posture already assumed the Knight's Dance fighting style.

"We can take him," spoke up Ser Barristan and the other Kingsguard. Each of them drew their swords, but was surprised when Daveth waived them back.

"Your Grace?"

"I need you and the others to keep the ironborn from overwhelming us from all sides. Don't worry. I've got a few tricks up my sleeve. Robb and I will take him."

"Nephew," Jaime tried to interrupt, "I strongly disagree with—"

" _Now_ , Ser Jaime."

The Kingslayer knew it was not a good idea to have him fight the older, experienced warrior by himself, even if his brother-in-law and a direwolf backing him up. Jaime felt an overwhelming need to utterly refuse the King's orders, but Jaime looked into Daveth's eyes and saw something, as if the Young Stag was reassuring his uncle – asking him to trust him. Begrudgingly, Jaime stood back in time the ironborn tried rushing them on all sides. Luckily, the Kingsguard and joint North-Royal forces were easily able to hold them off as Daveth and Robb sidestepped Victarion, who brandished his battleaxe.

"We'll take him together, my friend," Robb murmured.

"I was about to say that," replied Daveth.

"Come if you think you can take me on, boys," Victarion shouted, "and drown beneath the waves. You'll each make a fine tribute to the Drowned God."

In near perfect unison, Daveth and Robb charged Victarion. The elder Greyjoy turned quickly for a man of his size, left and ride he parried their blades. Grey Wind barked as he too joined the fray, snapping his jaws as he leapt through the air. Victarion was able to kick the direwolf away in time to swing his axe and bring his weapon down against Daveth's blade, his sheer muscle mass allowed him greater physical power to cause the Young Stag to stumble slightly before the youth regained his balance to resume the assault.

***CLASH!***

***SWING!***

***SLASH!***

***THUNG!***

***SWASH!***

Robb lunged at Victarion, but the Young Wolf's blade was deflected and was kicked in the chest, making him stumble backwards. Victarion turned and held his axe upwards as Grey Wind came down at him, his jaws slamming shut on the axe's wooden handle. As the direwolf growled and clawed at the kraken's armor, Victarion held the beast off with his left hand as he brought his right to punch the direwolf across the skull repeatedly. The direwolf yelped, but maintained a strong grip. Victarion glanced across his shoulder to see both Daveth and Robb charging at him; the Greyjoy shifted his position to spin and brought Grey Wind—still latching onto his battleaxe—around and jiggled his weapon enough to cause the direwolf to eventually lose its grip on the wooden handle and send him colliding into both Daveth and Robb.

"Oomph!" both young men grunted, the force of the direwolf's impact caused their feet to be swept out from under them and fall to the ground.

Victarion stood over the Young Stag and Young Wolf. "I hope you two can to do better than that, give me a better challenge," he bullied towards them. "I've handled worse from men twice your age. What could you possibly hope to achieve against me?"

Grey Wind stumbled before rolling back to his feet, snarling at the ironborn. Robb and Daveth got back to their feet as well. The Young Stag merely kept his eyes focused on Victarion.

"Only goes to show how little you ironborn know," Daveth mocked. "After all, you got your asses kicked before once your foolish brother Balon chose to rebel against father. Now you've done so again. The only difference, however, is that you will not survive. The Iron Islands will cease to exist once I'm done with you."

Robb stood, sword in hand. As he resumed the fighting stance, the Young Wolf couldn't help but feel a chill crawl up his spine as he listened to his best friend/brother-in-law issuing such harsh, verbal threats. To say Robb felt both unnerved and concerned would be an understatement, but he couldn't focus on that right now. For now, they had to deal with Victarion Greyjoy and retake Moat Cailin.

"Bold words, stag, but can you back up those words with your blade?" Victarion taunted.

"Why don't you come over here and find out?"

Victarion lunged, the sound of rain and thunderclaps surrounding the battlefield. Daveth moved to the right, whereas Robb went left. Both raised their swords and swung, and Victarion again deflected them off his axe. Grey Wind slipped past Victarion and jumped onto his back. Bearing his teeth, the direwolf only managed to bite down onto Victarion's kraken helmet, luckily managing to avoid the harmful spikes. The ironborn captain shoved both Robb and Daveth away, before grabbing a handful of Grey Wind's fur and threw the direwolf over his shoulders. Before he could lift his foot up and stomp on Grey Wind's skull, Robb rushed and swung his sword upwards, Victarion parried – giving Daveth an opening to thrust forward before the ironborn captain got his shield up.

***GRAPPLE!***

Daveth was taken by surprise as Victarion used his free hand to grip the Valyrian steel sword, ignoring how deep the blade cut into his flesh or how blood began to stain the Young Stag's weapon. He tried to pull back, but Victarion's grip was strong and surprisingly maintained a firm hold.

"Hmmm, nice sword you got there."

Robb again came into view. "Never take your eyes off the fight, Greyjoy!" he hollered.

***SWASH!***

Indeed, Victarion again parried the Young Wolf's blade and kicked Grey Wind away before the direwolf could lunge at him again. Daveth quickly unsheathed his dagger holstered to his belt and drove the blade into Victarion's hand.

"Grah!" the Lord Captain exclaimed before backhanding the Young Stag across the face, hitting with enough force to knock off Daveth's antlered-helm.

***BAM!***

Daveth spun around and fell to his knees, keeping his hands firmly on the muddy ground to maintain stability. Momentarily shaking his head, Daveth felt as if his world was spinning, feeling rather disoriented as he was struck with such power.

"Protect the King!" shouted one of his Kingsguard, Ser Meryn Trant, who came charging into view.

Ser Meryn leapt to meet Victarion, sword in hand. His first cut was low, and Victarion deflected it off his axe. His second caught the iron captain across the breastplate before he got his shield up. Victarion answered by smashing his shield in Meryn's face and sent him staggering backwards. Victarion raised his axe and put all his weight behind his cut, to open the Kingsguard from neck to groin, but Ser Meryn spun away. The Drowned God had not shaped Victarion Greyjoy to fight with words nor struggle against furtive sneaking foes in endless bogs. This was why he had been put on earth; to stand steel-clad with an axe red and dripping in his hand, dealing death with every blow.

The swords his foes attacked him from front and back did little to harm him. No blade could cut through Victarion Greyjoy's heavy plate, nor did he give his foes the time to find the weak points at the joints, where only mail and leather warded him. Let three men assail him, or four, or five; it made no matter. He slew them one at a time, trusting in his steel to protect him from the others. As each foe fell he turned his wroth upon the next.

Both Robb and Daveth regained their footing, and charged again. The moment Victarion knocked Ser Meryn aside, he returned his attention to the two young men as they brought their blades against him, steel hitting steel as Victarion's battleaxe parried and nearly knocked Robb down before Daveth briefly shoulder tackled him to keep him away from the Lord of Winterfell. It hardly fazed the ironborn captain, though, who merely absorbed the impact without losing his balance and head-butted the Young Stag.

"Still you fight like children," he said confidently.

Robb huffed, taking a moment to catch his breath. "And what gave you the right to attack us when our backs are turned?"

"*Grrrrr!*" snarled Grey Wind.

"Our way is the Old Way, boy," Victarion answered. "We take what is ours, pay the iron price. It's who we are, what we've  _always_  been."

"'What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger.' That's how you tend to view your way of life, isn't it? Your… philosophy? Quite the bitter, angry little people you all are, hmm? So you steal what you can't build or grow yourselves, hmm?" murmured Daveth as he rose to his feet, the skin of his forehead reddening. "If so, then it's obvious you ironborn haven't learned your lesson. But you will soon enough. And I assure you, it will be the last time."

The Young Stag dropped his stance, shifting from the Knight's Dance fighting style into an unknown posture – one Robb himself had seen when they sparred at Winterfell two years ago. Daveth stood in a high guard position, the Valyrian steel sword in his right hand was angled behind him in a backward position, exposing the front as he held his dominant leg back. Victarion looked around him, noticing more Northmen and royals pouring into Moat Cailin as more and more of his men fell one-by-one. It wouldn't be long before the enemy would overwhelm him on all sides just as Paxter Redwyne and Stannis Baratheon did to him off the coast of Fair Isle.

"I already have,  _boy_ ," Victarion replied, removing the dagger lodged into his left hand and threw it into the ground before charging at the two.

***RUMBLE!***

***BOOM! CRACKLE!***

Robb and Daveth charged again before splitting off in two different directions; the young Baratheon circled to the left, the young Stark circled to the right. Victarion swung his axe in a horizontal cleave at Daveth, but the Young Stag quickly ducked downwards and swung his sword around to clash at the back of Victarion Greyjoy's lower leg, nicking at the mail and leather ever so slightly – but it was more than enough for a few rings to become loose. Victarion swore he felt a tug at his leg as Robb Stark brought his sword down, taking advantage of the ironborn captain's momentary distraction to clash against his armor. Victarion felt the element of surprise beginning to take its effect against two youngsters; in his frustration, his swung his axe upward but Daveth leaned his head to the side to avoid being struck.

Grey Wind saw his chance and lunged at Victarion, ensnaring the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet's right arm in his jaws. Lobstered steel crunched, and a stab of pain made him grunt, yet Victarion shook his arm from side to side and threw Grey Wind halfway across the muddy ground within Moat Cailin.

"Well, aren't you the clever one," he said as he grabbed Robb's wrist before the Young Wolf could swing again. "But I am just as quick as well." With his great strength, Victarion lifted Robb off the ground and tossed him at Daveth.

The Young Stag was knocked backwards as both he and Robb collided once more, before they got back up and continued their combined attack. Victarion swung across, making both Stark and Baratheon split to the sides. Robb went low for the legs, while Daveth went high – curling his right hand into a tight fist to punch Victarion in the face, ignoring the discomforting impact his fist made to the kraken helm.

***BAM!***

The Young Stag's punch to his face wasn't much, but the blow itself was more than enough to knock off Victarion's helm as the ironborn captain felt the Young Wolf's blade nicking at the mail and leather behind his back legs. Feeling his frustrations boil, Victarion kicked Robb in the face and backhanded Daveth across the face. Robb was lucky enough to keep his teeth, only getting a bloody nose from Victarion's kick before he stood back up. Daveth ignored the burning sensation in his cheek and shoulder tackled Victarion again, putting a lot of his strength into the hit – ignoring the broken arrows in his body. Despite being eight inches shorter in height, Daveth was lucky enough to actually force the older, much stronger Greyjoy to go stumbling backwards through the mud.

"Don't get too overconfident, boy!"

"Funny, you had that very same expression earlier during the first phase. The biggest mistake you could ever make is to underestimate your opponent by judging them based on appearance!"

"A wolf or a stag does not compare to the might of a kraken! Whatever the kraken grasps it does not lose, be it longship or leviathan!"

"Yet the kraken has no bones whenever it comes ashore! No bones!"

***RUMBLE!***

***BOOM! CRACKLE!***

Victarion felt himself being put onto the defensive as Robb Stark and Daveth Baratheon attacked together again, taking advantage of the chaos – Grey Wind, having recovered, gave chase but was held back as more ironborn intervened. The direwolf was forced to take out those blocking its path to assist its master left and right. As the battle within the ancient fortress continued, both the Lord of Winterfell and King of the Seven Kingdoms forced the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet outside of Moat Cailin itself and into open terrain. Rain, thunder and lightning dominated the skies above, and the heavy fog rolling in had made visibility more difficult.

_'Gah! Seven hells, this is much worse than the Battle of Blackwater Bay,'_  the Young Stag thought as he brought Stormbringer clashing against Victarion Greyjoy's battleaxe.

Robb knew every inch of the terrain. There are a set of steep hills and cliffs nearby. With the wet mud making the three combatants slip, the Young Wolf strategized that the way to defeat such a larger, stronger adversary was to push him either off a cliff or a steep hill. Whatever the option, if the fall doesn't kill Victarion Greyjoy then a mortal wound would be enough to incapacitate him until the fog was lifted. He briefly took a moment to catch his breath to look at Daveth.

"Daveth," Robb panted, his eyes pointing in a simple direction.

The Young Stag glanced over and saw what Robb was looking at. Apparently, he had the same idea as well. Briefly nodding his head, Daveth gripped Stormbringer in both hands.

"I know. This ends now!" he shouted.

Victarion shook his head in frustration. "The battle isn't over until I  _say_  it is over!" he roared. Victarion could feel warm blood trickling down his fingers beneath the mail and leather and lobstered plate, but that was nothing. He beat his axe against the ground and charged them.

Daveth and Robb pressed forward, momentarily stumbling in the mud before engaging the ironborn captain in a brutal battle. Some twenty leagues away, the Iron Fleet—especially Victarion's flagship the  _Iron Victory_ —remained ashore at Blazewater Bay. Too far away to provide cover fire, unable to see where to aim, all it could do was to remain at anchor. Not too far were the Fever River and the Saltspear nearby. Both Stark and Baratheon were to not permit Victarion Greyjoy to make it to one of the oars. They had to finish him now, either by killing him in combat or incapacitate him until the fog clears so as to properly send a search party to retrieve him. If Victarion escapes, then the Iron Fleet will devastate the royal blockade set up around the Iron Islands itself.

***SLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***CLASH!***

***THUNG!***

Victarion swung his axe, extending his arm forward to attain greater reach. Daveth and Robb leapt backwards, narrowly avoiding the blade – tearing Robb's leather armor and scratching Daveth's breastplate. The more Victarion forcibly swung his axe, the more winded he was feeling. But his opponents were just as tired too. As the battle proceeds, Victarion grips Robb about the throat with a bloody fist and lifts him up off the ground.

"Now face the kraken's might!" Victarion bellowed, rearing his axe back to swing it forward. Before he could, Daveth's blade clashed against the handle below the axe itself – forcing it to remain in place. The Young Stag groaned as he strained trying to keep the axe from killing Robb.

"You… will…  _not_ … take another life!" Daveth groaned. "Not now, not…  _ever again_!"

Victarion growled in frustration. "What is dead may never die!"

As he watched Robb being strangled, watching his arm slowly going limp, Daveth felt something snap within his inner conscious. Suddenly emboldened with rage and ferocity as old memories at Lannisport and his captivity came flooding back to him, Daveth felt his muscles strengthen, his grip on Stormbringer became tighter and was surprisingly forcing Victarion Greyjoy's axe slowly downwards – surprising the ironborn captain, who himself tried to force his weapon upwards.

"YOU WILL NOT TAKE ANYONE ELSE FROM ME!" Daveth screamed loudly, forcing the enormous axe down and rapidly thrusting Stormbringer into Victarion's arm, beneath the armor and into the leather.

Victarion grunted as his grip on Robb's throat was released, the Young Wolf clapped his hands around his neck, coughing as breath found its way back into his lungs. Once he looked up, Daveth—in his bloodlust rage—kept bashing Stormbringer against the ironborn captain's axe again and again as hard as he possibly could, all while forcing him backwards towards the nearest ledge.

"I'LL KILL YOU!" he continued screaming.

Back at Moat Cailin, several of the joint Northmen-royal forces managed to find their way towards the dueling trio. The first to arrive were Harrion and Torrhen Karstark, who rushed to the side of their liege lord.

"My lord!" shouted the Karstark brothers, helping the Young Wolf to his feet.

Robb coughed as he was brought to his feet. "*cough, cough* I'll be all right," his voice rasped. "Come. We have to help the King."

Both nodded and rushed to aid Daveth, now having been disarmed, had been pushing against Victarion with all his might against the slippery mud. Victarion grabbed the Young Stag by his forearms, temporarily halting the advance.

"Don't think for a second that you can stop the kraken's might as easily as that!" he bellowed.

"I WILL KILL YOU!"

"Then drown beneath the waves!"

Victarion then pushed Daveth back. The Young Stag's feet sliding backwards despite his Baratheon-fueled rage. Before the Greyjoy could pick up his axe and raise once more, Daveth found himself being assisted by Robb and his two bannermen Harrion and Torrhen Karstark. With the momentum behind him, Daveth pushed back.

"Keep pushing!" Harrion strained.

"We almost got him!" shouted Torrhen.

Raising his axe high into the air, Victarion bellowed a loud roar and swung his axe downward. With a loud, sick, cracking thud, Victarion's axe had split the head of Harrion Karstark in two.

"Brother!" Torrhen cried out.

When he jerked his axehead free again, Harrion's skull seemed to burst. Bone and blood and brain went everywhere, and the corpse fell backwards, landing in the mud; too late to plead for quarter now. After witnessing another die, Daveth gave a forceful shove which caused Victarion Greyjoy to slip and stumble backwards. With every ounce of strength and filled with grief at the loss of his brother, Torrhen Karstark yelled and kicked Victarion with all his might.

The ironborn captain felt the steep hill behind him and struggled to keep his balance, but when a grief-stricken Torrhen was assisted by Daveth and Robb, Victarion fell backwards down the slope, vanishing into the deep fog itself. Torrhen himself nearly stumbled forwards before Daveth and Robb managed to pull him back up. Panting and feeling tears streaming down his face, Torrhen walked back to the corpse of his eldest brother Harrion. Cradling his body, the second born Karstark wailed in agony. Robb approached and tapped Torrhen's shoulder, sharing in his vassal's grief.

Daveth continued looking downward into the fog-ridden slope, knowing that if the hard stones or sharp, pointed branches that lay below at the bottom didn't kill Victarion Greyjoy, then he'd somehow make his return to the Iron Islands. If he survived the fall, that is. But the Young Stag for now reserved judgment. War horns and cheers began a rather close distance behind him. Turning around, Daveth saw his men throwing off the banners of House Greyjoy from Moat Cailin and replacing them with banners of both House Stark and House Baratheon atop of them. One of his Kingsguard, Ser Barristan, approached him.

"We did it, Your Grace," the old knight panted wearily. "Moat Cailin has been liberated."

_'But at what cost…?'_  Daveth thought. Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by the dead bodies of his men. According to the scouts, 9,459 men were lost during the first wave; 1,400 the second. The more he looked around the rain-soaked, muddy, fog-ridden environment, King Daveth Baratheon had to estimate that his losses numbered almost 10,000 if not more.

"My son!" he heard someone call out.

Pushing his way through the victors was Lord Rickard Karstark, who, filled with as much shock and grief as his second son, knelt down to cradle the lifeless body of his eldest son and heir.

"Harrion!" Lord Karstark wailed in agony.

Daveth glanced at the Lord of Karhold, before looking down at Harrion's corpse. He hadn't imagine how hard it must be for a parent to lose a child, especially if they're close. In a way, he felt saddened for the loss of a Northman who aided him in this victory but that particular loss could be blamed on the ironborn. In a way, they had a role to play in the loss of his men. As soon as he was finished, Rickard Karstark gently placed the body of his dead son down into the mud and stood back up, his fists shaking with fury.

"Who did it?!" Rickard demanded. "Who killed my son?!"

"You won't be able to find the body in this fog, Lord Karstark," Daveth answered wearily and honestly. "If Victarion Greyjoy did somehow manage to survive the fall, and break both of his legs preferably, then I will give you the justice you deserve. For now, you should see to your son. He sacrificed himself to ensure our victory. He died a hero."

Rickard still shook with fury and grief, but took another glance towards Harrion's corpse and felt his face sadly quivering as he embraced his son's body once more. Grey Wind ran up and saw what happened, howling for what had occurred. Daveth looked at Robb who also comforted his closest of kin, before turning to his men.

"Let the word spread!" exclaimed the Young Wolf. "We've successfully retaken Moat Cailin! Tend to your wounds, and… see to it that the bones of those who died today are returned to their respective homes. Bury them alongside their ancestors. See to it that their families are taken care of."

Daveth felt his eyelids slowly coming down, before shaking his head. He suddenly wasn't feeling too good. Feeling his nose starting to bleed, he stumbled slightly as he began feeling a painful heat emanating from his right shoulder, side and torso. Seven hells! He forgot that the armor-piercing arrows that had pierced him during the fight were still embedded in him even though they had been snapped in half. Daveth moved to keep his balance, but it didn't take long for others to notice.

"Your Grace?" Lucius said rather concerned.

Robb Stark and the rest of the assembled army turned to see Daveth panting in the rain, before stunning all in attendance before falling to his knees and falling face first into the muddy terrain.

"Your Grace!" Barristan shouted.

"Someone find a maester! Hurry!"

Robb turned to his men. "Somebody find my wife! Find Talisa! Bring her here at once!" he ordered.

By the time the men had begun rushing to find a healer before they could celebrate their major victory, King Daveth felt exhaustion setting in, the pain from the physical beating he endured and the arrows still lodged in his body. The concerned voices surrounding him grew quieter as he slowly closed his eyes.

_'Not yet… I'm not— not done yet. There's still so much I have to do,'_  the Young Stag thought before all finally passing out.

As the rain and thunder continued beating the landscape, the journey to end the Second Greyjoy Rebellion was far from finished. And King Daveth himself stubbornly refused to let anything slow him down. But for now, he needed rest. He pushed himself too hard. And it would take a while before he could begin with the next phase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, here's the second part of the siege of Moat Cailin. A lot of people died, but in the end Daveth and Robb retook Moat Cailin from the ironborn. But it was a costly fight. As for Victarion Greyjoy, I get the feeling that there could be more room for improvement so he might be out of the chapter or two or three, but this doesn't mean that he's been killed off like that. I know he's tough; for those of you who follow this guy, I'll be whipping up something good for you all when the eventual invasion of the Iron Islands commences. For now, what do you guys think? Thoughts? Let me know.


	49. I Made a Choice

* * *

**Somewhere near the Saltspear…**

* * *

In a remote location down the Fever River, a small scouting party finished its observation of the surrounding area. In the distance, they could see multiple ships bearing the sigil of House Greyjoy—a gold kraken on a black field—on its sails. Even from their position, they could see smoke rising from the distance… an estimated twenty leagues from their location, the battle to retake Moat Cailin from the ironborn was an intense one. The rain and thunder had subsided, and it was time to put the plan into action. The group's leader was a tall and gaunt man with a two-foot-long ropey black goatee dangling from his pointed chin.

His men refer to him as Locke, a man-at-arms sworn to House Bolton. Lord Roose Bolton considers Locke to be his best hunter, but Locke, however, was only seen as the  _de jure_  leader of the scouting party. The  _de facto_  leader was in fact the young man standing next to him. With curly and dry dark brown hair and cold blue eyes, his name was Ramsay Snow, bastard son of Roose Bolton. Dressed to disguise himself as a mere servant, Ramsay was ready for the hunt. Despite his bastard status, Ramsay was quite intelligent in his own twisted way. As the two friends watched from a distance, two of their men came back.

 

"The trap's in place, my lord," one of them spoke up.

"Good," Locke nodded. "Then that means the hunt can commence without any hindrance. Provided of course that our new… 'guest'… behaves himself?"

Ramsay smiled with confidence. "Oh, there's no need to worry about  _him_. Just be sure to make the scene look rather convincing. We don't want to give ourselves away too early now, wouldn't we? I mean, that would ruin the hunt."

"That it would, Ramsay. That it would."

With a snap of his fingers, some of Locke's men brought one of their captives, his arms tied behind his back and a bag placed over his head although sounds of muffling protests and a small struggle gave it away. Once they forced their prisoner to his knees, Locke approached him.

"Take it off," he ordered.

One of the hunters went around and yanked off the cloth, revealing the prisoner as Theon Greyjoy himself. From the looks of it, Theon appeared bloodied and beaten. Bruised and blood stains from his lip and the side of his head; his nose was slightly crocked, indicating a broken nose. As his eyes adjusted to the light, Theon glanced around – realizing where his captors had taken him… and how they caught him.

**ooOoo**

_Back at Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy stood on the grounds of the fortress's main courtyard. Still conflicted with having to choose between being a Stark or Greyjoy, he somehow knew that the choice he made would be the one that would forever seal his fate. He picked back up the parchment he let slip from his fingers moments before, taking a moment to re-read it before crumpling it in his hand._

_"Forgive me, father. Forgive me, Yara," his voice cracked. "Forgive me, Lord Stark…"_

_Just earlier he had to forcibly send both Bran and Rickon Stark away with Jojen and Meera Reed as their guides, but that did little to settle Theon. As much as he hated being in a tough situation as he was a ward, Theon came to realize how he appreciated House Stark's treatment of him despite being a political hostage. He saw Eddard as a surrogate father figure, and Robb, Bran, Rickon and Jon Snow as brothers. They treated him like family, better than his own ever did._

_Theon still wandered across the courtyard by himself. "I'm sorry I made a choice. I know what I did in your eyes was a betrayal, but… But you wouldn't listen to me."_

_"Who wouldn't listen to you?" a voice called out._

_Surprised, Theon spun around and saw a couple of strangers he had never met before. Locke approached him as his men surrounded the ironborn on all sides, rendering him unable to escape should he try to run._

_"I asked you a question. Who wouldn't listen to you?"_

_Theon gulped nervously. "My father, Balon Greyjoy," he answered honestly. "I swear I told him not to do it. I tried!"_

_"A Greyjoy?" Locked raised an eyebrow in amusement. "You're far from home, aren't you? You do know that the traitor kraken is rebelling again."_

_"I tried to stop him!" he protested._

_"Well, it's obvious you didn't try hard enough. Or maybe you really are an ironborn at heart."_

_A mere servant walked in front, calmly placing both hands up to keep them both from going at each other should things escalate into violence._

_"My lord," he beseeched, "perhaps we should give him a chance to explain the full story? I mean… look at him. He obviously means no harm."_

_Theon quickly nodded his head in agreement with what this seemingly lowborn suggested, but Locke was not having any of it._

_"Even so, Lord Bolton will likely have my head if I refused his orders. Clap the Greyjoy in irons, take him into custody. If he cooperates, then he may prove useful to us."_

_Theon tried to escape, but the soldiers surrounding him prevented his hastily getaway and grabbed him before harshly throwing him to the ground and beating him to a pulp._

_"No! Stop it! Please! No, no, no!" he screamed, but his cries were ignored as Locke laughed sadistically and the harsh, cruelty the Bolton men-at-arms inflicted on the unarmed, outnumbered, defenseless Theon Greyjoy._

_The servant looked on in shock, before turning his head to look away from the beatings taking place. However, unbeknownst to Theon, who continued pleading for mercy, there laid a smirk below on lowborn's face. His lips curled into a wet-lipped smile as he fiddled with a flaying knife between the tips of his fingers before hiding it away in his sleeves._

**ooOoo**

Ramsay resumed his servant-like façade as he approached Theon carefully, grabbing a piece of cloth to wipe away the blood from Theon's face. Locke noticed his cue and gathered his men to ride towards the shores, leaving the two alone.

"Are you all right, my lord?"

Theon shook his head. "No, no I'm not. Why? Why did he do that?" he asked.

Ramsay, playing the role, falsely shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I serve them, the men who beat you into the mud."

"Why?" the ironborn asked. "Why serve them after what they've done?"

"I didn't have a choice, my lord. I only did what they told me to do."

"And yet you risked your safety for me back and Winterfell. Why?"

Ramsay cleverly conjured a lie. "I grew up on Saltcliffe, my lord. I was ironborn, just like you. I was only a boy when they took you away."

_'Who's 'they'?'_  thought Theon. "What do you mean?"

"My father brought us up to the bluffs so we could watch you carried off. I remember the look on my father's face when he told us, 'That's Balon Greyjoy's last living son.' And those are the words I heard over again when I saw what those men were doing to you."

"Then… those men, they said my father knew what they were doing to me. Did he?" he sounded almost pleadingly; his voice winced in pain as Ramsay tending to his wounds.

"I don't know, my lord," Ramsay lied. "They… they never told me much. I'm not what you'd call… a 'worthy enough vassal' to be brought into discussions. They— wait! Something's coming!"

Theon raised his head and looked around; ignoring the discomfort around his facial features before noticing off in the distance multiple ships were bearing the sigils of House Redwyne, House Lannister and House Baratheon of Dragonstone arriving through the thick fog. Then momentarily looking down onto the shore line, Theon could see several ironborn who were able to escape the siege at Moat Cailin and ran for their oars. But before anyone could blink…

***BOOM!***

***KABAAM!***

Theon widened his eyes in terror as he saw the three fleets hurling fireballs from each of their ships' trebuchets and onto the shore, hitting several unfortunate ironborn who weren't able to avoid the blast in time. Screams and shouts filled his ears as he watched his ironborn brethren being blown away. Those who were lucky enough to make it back to the Iron Fleet scrambled to raise their anchors and set sail to begin their counterattack, but the combined fleets had them right where they wanted them. Although the Iron Fleet was great in number, the Royal Fleet had the ironborn pinned and surrounded on all sides as they continued raining down a bombardment of fireballs and scorpion bolts from their vessels and onto theirs.

"Who are they?" Ramsay pretended.

Theon narrowed his eyes to get a better look. "I see uh… one sail with, uh… purple grapes on a white field; another with a… golden lion; and the other with a… a red sail with a fiery shaped heart around a stag."

_'So the Redwynes, Lannisters and Stannis Baratheon are gathered in one place. Finally, the final puzzle piece comes into play,'_  thought Ramsey wickedly. He saw several Iron Fleet longships beginning to return fire, battering the Royal Fleet with a barrage of fireballs.

"I thought how jealous I was when my father told Yara to take Deepwood Motte before the Starks took it back."

Ramsey raised an eyebrow. "What did he tell you?"

"Raid fishing villages, but he didn't trust me. Thought I was set as a Stark and mainlander for life," Theon admitted. "But the more time I spent with them… things started… making less sense. I always wanted to do the right thing.  _Be_  the right kind of person. But… I never knew what that meant. It was always like there was an impossible choice I had to make. Stark or Greyjoy."

"I'm not sure I… if I follow you," asked Ramsey rather puzzled.

"Robb Stark always reminded me of my place, but he didn't have to. It was all he had to be. Who he was born to be. Just as it was Daveth Baratheon's to get his hands dirty so that other people wouldn't have to. One was like a brother to me, but the other had a look in his eyes… one that never forgave or forgotten. My father paid the iron price for his crown, but in the end he'll get nothing but the annihilation of our way of life. Either way, it's too late. I made a choice, but… I'm not sure whether it was right or wrong."

"Maybe these things take time."

Theon shook his head. "Nothing ever is."

***KABOOOOM!***

Their talks were broken once again when an unexpected explosion engulfed most of the Iron Fleet, but in the chaos some of the Royal Fleet ships were caught up in the incident – causing the others to briefly withdraw to a safe distance to avoid the same fate. More than a dozen Iron Fleet vessels were able to escape the carnage and retreated through the Sunset Sea, dodging naval attacks before vanishing into the fog. Theon kept his gaze on the explosion, his eyes widened and his mouth lowered in shock – witnessing the slow decay of the ironborn and its massive naval forces.

"Wha… what just happened?" Theon gasped.

"Exactly what you'd think," replied Locke, who returned up the hillside with several of his men. "Moat Cailin is ours again. Your Greyjoy uncle just got his ass kicked by Robb Stark and Daveth Baratheon, but took advantage of the chaos you saw just now to escape." He pointed the tip of his sword at Theon's throat. "Any idea where Victarion Greyjoy would be heading right about now?" he demanded threateningly.

Theon felt the blade at his throat, his hands were still bound behind his back unable to resist. Shaking his head, Theon looked up at Locke.

"If I'd have to guess… he'll probably stage a last line of defense and use what remains of the Iron Fleet to defend the Iron Islands. My father will know what'll come next."

Locke looked down at Theon. "Take him with us. I'm sure the Oathkeeper will offer a huge reward for such a valuable prize."

"What?" Theon felt his throat tighten.  _'He'll have me killed the moment he sees me,'_  he realized. "Wait! No, you can't! I know the Iron Islands like the back of my hand. Spare me, and I'll show you how to get around my father's defenses! Ask Robb Stark! He'll vouch for me!"

"I'm afraid that'll be up to the King himself to decide. Now, you're coming with us, Greyjoy."

Theon was forcibly yanked to his feet by Locke and felt the ropes around his wrist tightening as the Bolton men-at-arms pushed him forward, almost sending him tumbling down the hill as the fighting at sea continued on in the distance behind them. The young Greyjoy was being led to the main camp surrounding Moat Cailin where King Daveth Baratheon and Lord Robb Stark were said to be stationed at. He was going to see them again after some time, although Theon knew that only  _one_  of them  _might_  be pleased to see him. The other, meanwhile, well… the young Greyjoy simply knew that someday his fate would be decided. But he planned to do so of his own choosing.

* * *

**At Meereen…**

* * *

Nightfall remained on the city of Meereen, and the uprising between the rebel slaves and the Great Masters remain ongoing. So far, the forces led by Daenerys Targaryen, Daario Naharis, Grey Worm and Jon Connington made significant strides aiding the rebels in their revolutionary fight for freedom.

    
 

The female slave-warrior Zhalimda Hahzuz, already gathered what was left of her unit and rode out with the intent on claiming one of Meereen's great pyramids. After more than an hour, Daario watched with amazement as he saw each slave master being thrown off one-by-one, each of them screaming on the way down before being silenced with a loud thud. The mercenary leader of the Second Sons continued cutting through Ghiscari soldiers with relative ease, taunting each of them as they went down.

"Māzigon va, sir! iksis bisa se sȳrje ao've jiōraton? (Come on, now! Is this the best you've got?)" Daario taunted.

"Sagon lyka, zegh! (Be silent, vermin!)"

One of the Ghiscari soldiers went into a frenzy and attacked, only to be swiftly silenced when Daario threw his dagger in his face before cutting him down with a Dothraki blade. Brushing a few strands of hair away from his face, Daario turned to see Jon Connington holding off a dozen Ghiscari soldiers, tossing each of them off of him with a rough push and cutting them down.

***SWISH!***

***SLASH!***

***CLASH!***

***CLEAVE!***

The former Lord of Griffon's Roost panted as he stood over the corpses. It's been hours since they arrived, and already they've been thrown into the fray. Connington to see Daario raising his hands up playfully.

"Getting tired there, old man?" he smiled.

Jon was tired and irritated. "Bah, keep your tongue in your head, lad! We still got plenty more to go before the slave masters are removed from power. Her Grace Daenerys Targaryen won't take kindly to you slacking off."

"You worry too much."

"And you don't take thing seriously. Now move it!"

Daario sighed as he and Jon both managed to rendezvous with Grey Worm and Daenerys outside the Dragon Pit. They had already led a small group of Unsullied to infiltrate the city under the guise of slaves through a sewer and brought more weapons inside for the slaves to join them in the uprising. By now it the sun was beginning to rise, the reflection of the sun rays bounce off the Great Pyramids of Meereen as the battle was beginning to wind down. From the looks of it, many began to speculate that the rebel slaves would emerge as victorious in their bid to free themselves from the Great Masters.

"Welcome, gentlemen," Daenerys greeted.

"Your Grace," Jon curtsied. "We did not expect your arrival so quickly. I trust that you are well?"

"I'm fine, Lord Connington. I did say we intended to aid these people, no?"

"And you kept your word, I know, child. Still… some of the rebel slaves still remain suspicious of our… how to put it… 'interests within the city once their freedom has been secured.'"

"I understand their caution, but our only interest right now is that every slave—man, woman and child, old and young—are freed from the chains that binds them. Once this battle is over, I will speak to whoever is leading these brave souls."

"Ao sound hae lo iksan daor rudhy, Dāria Zaldrīzoti. (You sound as if I'm not present, Dragon Queen)," called a voice from behind her.

Daenerys, Daario, Jon and Grey Worm turned to see who it was that was approaching them. Gracefully walking towards her benefactors, the leader of the slave revolt was a young Ghiscari woman. Tall, dark-skinned, slender and in her mid-30s, the Ghiscari rebel slave leader had piercing brown eyes and curly black hair with one side of her head shaved. From the eyes down, they saw she had the whip marks and scars—indicating the abuse she, like her brethren, had endured under the slave masters' rule.

"Se iksā? (And you are?)" asked Daenerys.

"Saqnizza Dhardu," she introduced herself. "Se vali se ābrar ao ūndegon kesīr gō emā issare vīlībāzma se buzdari āeksia iā bōsa jēda gō aōha… naejot īlva lenton. (The men and women you see here before you have been fighting the slave masters a long time before your… timely intervention.)"

"Gaomagon daor sagon zūgagon, raqiros. Istin se buzdari āeksia issi gone, kesan ūndegon naejot ziry bona se people kesīr issi ȳgha se secure. (Do not worry, friend. Once the slave masters are gone, I will see to it that the people here are safe and secure.)"

"Nēdenka udra, riña. Yn iksan zūgagon bona iksi daor interested isse trading mēre āeksio syt another. (Bold words, child. But I'm afraid that we are not interested in trading one master for another.)"

Daenerys seemingly stiffened, as if offended. "Ao misunderstand ñuha intentions, Saqnizza Dhardu. Nyke māstan naejot dohaeragon dāez se slaves, daor conquer zirȳ. (You misunderstand my intentions, Saqnizza Dhardu. I came to help free the slaves, not conquer them.)"

"Hae ao gōntan lēda Astapor? iā Yunkai? (Like you did with Astapor? Or Yunkai?)" Saqnizza retorted. "īlon gīmigon skoros ao gōntan konīr, yn gaomagon emā mirre idea hae naejot skoros massitas tolī ao geptot? (We know what you did there, but do you have any idea as to what happened after you left?)"

"Nyke geptot iā council naejot udrāzma Astapor. Iā giēñatī, iā scholar, se iā voktys. (I left a council to rule Astapor. A healer, a scholar, and a priest.)"

"Bona ao gōntan, yn lī ao installed naejot udrāzma toliot se oktion sia sepār overthrown ondoso iā butcher brōstan Cleon qilōni vestretir zirȳla dārys. (That you did, but those you installed to rule over the city were just overthrown by a butcher named Cleon who declared himself king)," Saqnizza informed Daenerys.

_'What?'_  thought a stunned Dragon Queen. If what the slave leader had told her was true, then that would mean…

"Yn bona didn't mōrī bōsa. (But that didn't last long)," she continued. "Se sylvie āeksia emagon pār gūrotan Astapor se Yunkai aril. (The Wise Masters have since took Astapor and Yunkai back.)"

_'_ _All my victories turn to dross in my hands'_ , she thought.  _'Whatever I do, all I make is death and horror. No, that shouldn't matter now._ '

When word of what had befallen Astapor reached the streets, as it surely would, tens of thousands of newly freed Meereenese slaves would doubtless decide to follow her when she went west, for fear of what awaited them if they stayed… yet it might well be that worse would await them on the march. Even if she emptied every granary in the city and left Meereen to starve, how could she feed so many? The way before her was fraught with hardship, bloodshed, and danger.

"But that doesn't matter, doesn't it?" Saqnizza spoke in the Common Tongue, all while gazing out the window. "My brother and sisters in chains look to me for guidance, for deliverance. Once this is over, we will govern ourselves. Not by the slave masters, and not an outsider who doesn't understand the city's people."

Daenerys bit her tongue, feeling herself swelling with mild irritation and frustration that someone was talking back to her like that. As if she's appearing to be rather ungrateful with the aid she's providing to the rebelling slaves, but it also served as a reminder as to where it was the Dragon Queen went wrong. Even so, their talks would have to wait until the battle was over.

**Three hours later…**

More fighting continued, and soon enough, the battle for control of Meereen had ended in a decisive victory for the rebels. Standing atop the Great Pyramid, Saqnizza looked over from on-high as the city streets below still drowned itself in cheers of the mass celebration that took place. The Great Masters had fallen from grace, the slaves were free… and those who brutalized them were clapped in chains and would be place on trial.

"Do you see, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons?" Saqnizza asked her guest. "In order to rule, you have to know the people and understand the surrounding areas. The things that make us who we are, what defines us…"

"You've mentioned this before," Daenerys replied. "And yet you maintain that I still have much to learn."

"All in due time."

Daenerys leaned in. "And what comes of us? Some of my men died fighting to help these people be free."

"We haven't forgotten," Saqnizza retorted. "You and your people can stay in Meereen, provided that of course you all behave yourselves and not stir up any trouble. The people of Meereen have a troubled history with outsiders."

"Fair enough. But I do intend to sail for Westeros, and Meereen has ships. If you could spare—"

" _My_  ships are not up for discussion at the moment, Dragon Queen. Any talks you wish to discuss will happen once things are quiet. Now is not the time."

As the newly-proclaimed Queen of Meereen walked to settle into her chambers, she stopped and turned to look at the younger, silver-haired Queen.

"Welcome to the new Meereen, Daenerys Stormborn, one where we decide our own fates. I'm sure you'll find the following days will be quite entertaining, to be sure."

Daenerys watched as Saqnizza walked out of the room. She sighed and shook her head in irritation, sitting down as she massaged her temples. It was this time that Jon Connington entered.

"Your Grace," he announced.

Daenerys looked up. "Enter, Lord Connington."

Jon entered the room and sat down in front of her. "You must be exhausted, child. When was the last time you slept."

"I said I would answer justice with justice, yet I sit here and the pretense of bringing justice is rather slow and unresponsive. How am I to rule Westeros if things aren't settled around Slaver's Bay?"

"I fear that what you want to happen takes time," Jon explained. "It doesn't just… happen over night. Time, patience… and compassion. If you're to rule the Seven Kingdoms, you need to learn these traits in a short span of time."

"Why should—"

"I know you thought what Saqnizza meant, but see it as an opportunity for a simple re-evaluation. Sometimes it is better to answer injustice with mercy."

Daenerys frowned deeply. "I will answer injustice with  _justice_ ,  _Lord Connington_ ," she replied irritated.

Jon frowned and looked at her.  _'The same look in those violet eyes,'_  he reminisced his time in King's Landing as King Aerys II's Hand. "Then it's about time I told you the history of your father. About the Mad King."

Daenerys rose to her feet in anger. "You're here to remind me of my enemies' lies? The ones Viserys called our father. The Usurper called him that, and his dogs. Consider me reminded."

But before she turned to leave, Jon stood and grabbed her arm. Daenerys was briefly surprised by this act, but more so when her advisor's grip on her arm tightened.

"Unhand me this instant, Lord Connington," she warned.

Jon did not relent. "Listen, child! And listen well. I served on your father's Small Council. I was his Hand of the King. I was at his side from the beginning. And I will tell you this: your enemies did not lie."

Silence filled the room. Daenerys remained motionless, looking at Jon Connington with a stoic, stern face before finally breaking the silence.

"Go on."

With that, Jon released his grip on Daenerys' arm and set her down to explain. "I am no maester to quote history at you, Your Grace. Swords have been my life, not books. But every child in Westeros knows that the sons and daughters of House Targaryen always danced too close to madness. Your father was not the first."

"Yet you stayed," Daenerys pointed out.

"Aye, I stayed at your father's side before my exile, but I wasn't blind as to what he was," Jon nodded. "Madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin. That's what every child in Westeros learns of the Targaryens. Because of that, there's an old saying: 'Every time a new Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.'"

Daenerys raised an eyebrow, motioning for her advisor to continue. "So am I a coin in the hands of some god, is that what you are saying, ser?"

"No. But what I'm saying is that when the usurper Robert Baratheon and his lackeys rebelled against your father, King Aerys set their towns and castles aflame. He murdered sons in front of their fathers. He burned men alive with wildfire and laughed as they screamed. And his efforts to stamp out dissent led to rebellion that killed every Targaryen, including your brother Prince Rhaegar… all except for two. You and Viserys."

Daenerys felt herself shake, trembling as Jon Connington's words began to settle. All her life, Viserys told her that the rumors surrounding their father King Aerys II Targaryen that he was a madman and a tyrant who brought his end on himself as lies were told back to her by another; someone who actually stood at his side before her birth.

"Was… was Viserys…?" she blurted out.

Jon nodded. "Viserys was a child, and your mother Queen Rhaella sheltered him as much as she could. Your father always had a little madness in him. Yet he had his moments of charm and generous nature as well, so his lapses were mostly forgiven. His reign began with such promise… but as the years passed, the lapses grew more frequent, until—"

Daenerys stopped him. "I'm not my father!" she broke eye contact before returning them to meet Jon's.

The old Lord of Griffon's Roost shook his head with sympathy. "No, Your Grace. Thank the gods. Your ancestors Jaeherys the First, Daerion the Second, your grandfather Maekar the First, your mother Queen Rhaella… and Rhaegar. Him most of all."

"I wish I could have known him," her voice sounded wistful.

"I wish he could have known you, too," Jon said sadly. "But do you understand why I'm telling you this?"

Daenerys shook her head no.

"Because the Mad King gave his enemies the justice he thought they deserved. And each time, it made him feel powerful and right. Until the very end. Don't be like him, Your Grace. Only you can decide what kind of monarch you'll be."

She took a moment to process this new information. After exhaling, Daenerys moved towards the window before looking back at Jon. "I'll… need some time to take all this in. But… thank you, Lord Connington. For your teachings," she smiled.

Jon bowed politely before leaving. "I live to serve, Your Grace. I won't take up more of your time."

That night her handmaids brought her lamb, with a salad of raisins and carrots soaked in wine, and a hot flaky bread dripping with honey. Daenerys could eat none of it.

_'Did Rhaegar ever grow so weary like Jon said?'_  she wondered.  _'Did my ancestor Aegon the Conqueror, after his conquest?_ _'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's another filler chapter including Theon Greyjoy and Daenerys Targaryen. Also being introduced to the series is none other than the Bastard of the Dreadfort, Ramsay Bolton (born Ramsay Snow). A master of sadistic mind games, Ramsay is able to fool those he deems as pawns around him to get what he wants… and he plays the role well so as to sound rather convincing. What kind of role do you think Ramsay will play in future chapters? Also, Meereen freedom fighters opted to select their own monarch instead of Daenerys taking over the city-state of Slaver's Bay. How do you think this will affect her plans to sail to Westeros? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> And for those of you who've been asking me to spare Theon the fate he endured at Ramsay's hands, don't worry. I've got else something in store.


	50. We Forgive You

* * *

**At the battle encampments surrounding Moat Cailin…**

* * *

Lady Talisa Stark (née Maegyr) was busy tending to several injuries throughout the combined royal-led forces after the battle to liberate Moat Cailin came to an end. Once she received word from her husband Robb Stark that King Daveth I Baratheon was injured and had suddenly collapsed, Talisa hurried as quickly as she possibly could to tend to her brother-in-law's wounds.

Within the largest command tent, Talisa stood at Daveth's bedside – cleaning and stitching his injuries closed. He was already unconscious due to being administered milk of the poppy so the Volantenes could begin surgery. She had already taken a surgical scalpel to cut away the upper layer of infected skin before it could fester and used a unique set of pliers to gently pry out each of the arrowheads before applying medicinal ointment. Inside the tent stood Sers Barristan Selmy, Lucius Blackmyre and Jaime Lannister; all of whom stood guard at the entrance but also to check on Daveth's condition. The other soldiers and lords outside tended to their wounded, dying and dead.

"How is His Grace faring, my lady?" asked Barristan.

Talisa, who was busy threading the final stitch to Daveth's right shoulder, didn't look at the old Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"There's been a small portion of rot on his torso and right shoulder, though it never had the opportunity to fester even further. We managed to catch it in the nick of time. As for his shoulder, well, normally a man wouldn't be able to lift his arm after being struck with such an armor-piercing arrow, though the King is stronger than I initially thought possible. He should still retain it once I'm done. I would advise that he not apply so much pressure on his right shoulder for a while; give it a moment to heal."

Lucius placed a fist to his chin. "Hmm. But the arrow itself made impact with the deltoid muscle which is a fair distance from the subclavian artery which itself feeds the main brachial artery near the trapezius, is it not? The one that is vital to the arm itself?"

"Correct. Physically he'll be back on his feet and fighting again in no time, Ser. I recommend he at least take between three to six weeks for the King to fully recover. But…"

"'But'?" Jaime implored.

"There is no easier way of saying it," Talisa sighed. "His… 'nose bleeds' you've mentioned earlier? I suspect it stems from the fact that King Daveth is under a lot of stress; more than usual as of late."

"The lad's been under a lot of stress since ascending the throne, but I'm sure that's no reason for—"

Talisa interrupted. "Yet if it continues to persist, then it will  _kill him_."

The assembled Kingsguard were rendered silent at this foreign healer describe the consequence of what will happen if Daveth continues to push himself too hard the way he does. Jaime, in particular, knows full well what kind of lengths his nephew will go to see things through – but the Kingslayer is also aware of one, red-haired young woman who remains at King's Landing waiting for him to return alive. The Lannister Kingsguard might have his own disagreements with Daveth, but he was still his nephew. And as a Kingsguard, it was his responsibility to protect him.

"When has that ever been the case? If I know my nephew better than anyone in this camp, which I do, is that once he's made up his mind there's no stopping him. His father was like that, too. Only difference was that Daveth is smarter than Robert."

Lucius chimed in. "Yet his choice to act almost immediately demonstrates an impulsive, emotional response in stark contrast to the cool, calculating decision-making persona we've known thus far."

"When you've been brutally tortured by the ironborn for almost a year after watching them cut down all your friends before your eyes, that'll pretty much mess up any boy for life," Jaime reminded the Old Bull. "Only the Gods know for certain how many years Daveth's held a grudge against wet shits such as the Greyjoys."

"Yet this 'grudge' is chipping away at his health," Talisa reminds them, cutting the final stitch and wraps each surgical scar in bandages. "Whatever is making him like this, he needs to learn how to let go."

"You ever had been to war, lass?"

"No. I spend two years of my life nursing wounded men and putting people back together  _after_  a battle's done against 'wet shits'."

"Then you'd must know by now is that nothing is simple in terms of fighting battles, there are no easy choices in war. You either fight or you die. There is no in-between. Look down on the concept if you must, Lady Stark, but that's the way the world works."

"A strange philosophy you Westerosi men have…"

"I call it the way I see it."

A brief exchange between Talisa and Jaime ended as soon when Talisa examined her patient and noticed Daveth's closed eyes twitching more frequently. The Young Stag made a couple sounds in his sleep, but that couldn't help but bring others' attention towards the King himself. A slight twitch in his facial features and each finger on both hands slowly clenching at the sheets covering his body made others approach his bedside.

"Hmmm," Talisa examined.

"What is it?" asked Barristan.

"An increase in rapid eye movement indicates a series of intense dreaming. I've seen this before back in Volantis. Whatever the King is dreaming of at this moment, it must be bothering him quite a bit."

"So why not wake him?" demanded Ser Meryn Trant.

"Because doing so would make him experience a lot of pain. He still needs to recover."

Barristan moved to Daveth's left side. As the old Kingsguard knight looked down at his former squire moving about in his sleep, the Lord Commander couldn't help but ponder… what is Daveth dreaming about? And what is causing him such disturbance even in his slumber?

* * *

**In one of Daveth's dream cycles…**

* * *

Even though it was only a dream, it was dark. Everywhere he looked, Daveth saw nothing. Every step he took it was like walking on water. Almost having to constantly look over his shoulder, unaware of his surroundings, the Young Stag couldn't tell if this was either a dream… or a living nightmare.

**« Where… where am I?** **»**

The last thing he remembered before losing consciousness was the victory at Moat Cailin, driving out the ironborn occupying the ancient fortress and pushing Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy over the edge of the steep hill before he disappeared into the dense, thick fog. He examined his bare chest, noticing the bandages, stitches and dried blood that stained the white cloth. Scars would remain, but that didn't concern him at the moment.

He took another step, wandering about the darkness. But Daveth noticed a faint figure standing in front of him. As he grew closer, several more people joined in. They were children! By the looks of them, they were playing with wooden sticks – pretending to be knights.

_"I'm Ser Duncan the Tall!"_

_"I'm Ser Arthur Dayne!"_

_"I'm Aemon the Dragonknight!"_

Daveth suddenly found himself unable to move as he recognized the playing children. Amongst the group, the Young Stag recognized an 8-year-old version of himself standing with them.

**« This… this I remember.** **»**

One of the boys carried a small cloth around his left shoulder, a sigil depicting a blue bantam rooster on a yellow field. Several more children were able to become more noticeable as Daveth continued observing.

**« Darnis Swyft, Culler, Alrah… My friends.** **»**

Any playtime between the children came to a sudden halt as walls of fire began engulfing them, exclamations being replaced by shrieks of terror and screaming as steel clashed against steel before all was quiet as a tomb.

**« No! Not again! Stay away! Leave me alone!** **»**

_[Intro]_

_–_ _Can you hear me?_ **[1]** _  
_ _–_ _Can you hear me?_

Feeling his legs being freed from whatever restraints held him in place, Daveth clutched his head with both hands, eyes shut tight and fled deeper into the unknown dream world. Every living nightmare he endured when the ironborn raided Lannisport, sank the Lannister fleet before pillaging and killing any who stood in their way before taking him captive to the Iron Islands, Daveth was reliving every moment.

**« Like a coward, I stood there and watched them die.** **»**

_[Chorus]_

_–_ _Can you hear me?_ __  
_–_ _Can you hear me running?_  
_–_ _Can you hear me running?  
_ _–_ _Can you hear me calling you?_

_"Come now, my sweet. It's alright. You're safe now. No one can harm you …"_

The voice of his own mother, Cersei Lannister, sounded soothing as if she meant to shield her firstborn from the chaos, suffering and pain Daveth had been forced to endure for so many years.

_"You can't help me, mother. No one can help me."_

**« I couldn't do anything.** **»**

_[Verse 1]_

_–_ _Take the children and yourself_  
_–And hide out in the cellar_  
_–By now, the fighting will be close at hand_  
_–Don't believe the church and state_  
_–And everything they tell you  
_ _–Believe in me, I'm with the high command_

Daveth could hear his own voice, his inner thoughts, being made loud enough for him to hear. They were being repeated over and over again; the depths of his conscious revealed that beneath his exterior, he blamed himself for any sort of weakness he believed he had: helplessness, powerlessness… emotional vulnerability. It was a weakness that Cersei told him to rid himself of during his childhood after the First Greyjoy Rebellion came to a decisive end. More apparitions broke off into different directions, several going either past Daveth or through him. They couldn't harm him, but each of them wore the faces of all he knew in the past… all of whom were long gone.

_"We were your friends, and you let us die!"_

_"You could have saved us!"_

**« We were only children! What the ironborn did at Lannisport was not my fault!** **»**

Real as they may appear, Daveth knew they were supernatural echoes – but that did little to ease his suffering. The ghosts of the past embodied his suffering, a reflection of his own inner turmoil conflicting with his nature. However, even the best and brightest throughout the Seven Kingdoms can't save everyone no matter how hard they'd try. The more he pushed past them, Daveth only encountered more echoes.

_"Was it really worth it?"_

**« What?** **»**

_"Was living to see another day really worth it in the end? Having to once again watch so many more fall before your very eyes? How many more have to die before you're satisfied?"_

**« You are wrong! I never wanted any of this to happen!** **»**

_"Yet you have the power to end it. You are the King, aren't you?"_

**« It's not that simple! Reason or use of force alone cannot dictate one's own actions. Abandon your feelings, and only an empty shell of your former self will remain!** **»**

_"Haha! You really are a hypocrite, Daveth Baratheon! If only you could hear yourself right about now. Seeking to put an end to bloodshed is a noble pursuit, Oathkeeper, but what good is it when you yourself employ often dishonorable methods to achieve your goals?"_

**« Enough! I will hear no more!** **»**

Daveth continued pushing forward, never mind phasing through each echo again and again. No matter where he went, the taunts and cruelty would always follow him. Even worse, each reflection would strike at his very core – testing him in the cruelest way possible: doubt and the fear of failing again.

_[Chorus]_

_–Can you hear me?_  
_–Can you hear me running?  
_ _–Can you hear me running?_

**« No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try… I couldn't save any of them.** **»**

Finding nowhere else in the seemingly endless void, Daveth stopped in his tracks as another apparition took form.

**« Another illusion?** **»**

Much to his shock, Daveth saw a younger version of himself as a child sitting on a bench overseeing the Blackwater Rush, head in his palms.

_"Why? Why me? Why do I have to draw breath when all my friends are gone?"_

_[Chorus]_

_–Can you hear me calling you?_  
_–Can you hear me?_  
_–Can you hear me running?_  
_–Can you hear me running?  
_ _–Can you hear me calling you?_

Daveth slowly reached out to place a hand on his past self's shoulder, but his hand goes through like smoke. Breathless, Daveth looks around as the scenery around him disappears. He hears another voice.

_"I was pathetic."_

The Young Stag turns and sees himself again lifting himself up off the ground, wiping the blood away from his mouth before resuming a fighting stance. Daveth saw the figure he was fighting and remembered it as the day of his squire under Ser Barristan Selmy.

_"You're being too hard on yourself, my boy. The loss of your friends wasn't your fault."_

_"Yet I did nothing. If I'm to become King one day, I need to learn how to defend myself and others so it doesn't happen again."_

_"Prince Daveth—"_

_"I know, Ser Barristan. Come on. Let's keep going."_

The thoughts echoed as the memory itself faded away, but not before Daveth heard more words pour out of nowhere – the sound depicting his own voice.

_"Why am I doing this? What am I doing wrong?"_

**« I… I'm doing this to put an end to Balon Greyjoy's rebellion.** **»**

_"But will it end the chaos?"_

**« I… I don't know. I don't think it ever will.** **»**

_"Then why am I doing this?"_

But before Daveth could even give a response to the question, his younger self turns and leaves as his thoughts echoed; as Daveth turns, the echoes came rushing in more frequently and loudly.

_"Forgive me."_

_"What am I supposed to do now?"_

_"Someone give me the answers!"_

Daveth clutches his head, gritting his teeth listening to the screams of many more people. As his surroundings fade away once more, the Young Stag felt as if all his strength left him in a sudden hurry and felt to his hands and knees – coughing and gasping for breath as his head spun. But before the darkness could ensnare him, a bright light shined and unveiled a hand through to help Daveth back up to his feet.

_[Verse 2]_

_–There's a gun and ammunition_  
_–Just inside the doorway_  
_–Use it only in emergency_  
_–Better, you should pray to God_  
_–The Father and the Spirit  
_ _–Will guide you and protect you from up here_

_"Daveth. My boy."_

**« Is that…?** **»**

The Young Stag recognized that voice all too well. As the darkness faded away and was replaced with pure white, Daveth held his hand up to cover his eyes as he worked to adjust to such brightness. As he looked in front of him, another figure began manifesting itself into physical form as an old man. This old man had broad shoulders, blue eyes, pale white hair and an aquiline nose. A double-edged longsword at his side had wings on its crossguard, a falcon-head pommel and engraved in silver to resemble mountain sky. For his attire, he wore a long cape visually evoking a falcon's wings with long open sleeves, nearly capes, hanging from his shoulders then looped back up to attach to brooches in the middle of the chest.

Once he was within plain sight, a swirling rush of emotions flooded Daveth as his face depicted a saddened, heartbroken expression.

**« Jon Arryn?** **»**

Illusion or no, the apparition standing before him assumed the form of the deceased Jon Arryn—Lord of the Eyrie, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Warden of the East. The first Hand of the King under his father Robert Baratheon, Jon Arryn was like a surrogate grandfather figure to Daveth and was the one person Daveth was very close to.

_[Chorus]_

_–Can you hear me?_  
–Can you hear me running?  
_–Can you hear me running?  
_ _–Can you hear me calling you?_

_"I expect you have a lot questions, some I can only answer in a short span of time. You wonder why I'm standing here before you when you know I am gone?"_

**« How are…? I-I don't understand. I saw you die. What does this mean? Did-did I do something wrong? Am I being punished?** **»**

_"Daveth, I know how much you miss me. But try to understand there are circumstances we can't predict will happen, nor are we capable enough to prevent events from occurring before they could even begin. Know that your prayers and wishes cannot bring me back. My death should not be used as an anchor, a clutch for you to cling on to."_

_[Chorus]_

_–Can you hear me?_  
_–Can you hear me running?_  
_–Can you hear me running?_  
_–Can you hear me?_  
_–Can you hear me running?_  
_–Can you hear me running?  
_ _–Can you hear me calling you?_

Daveth felt his throat tightening as his long-suppressed emotions poured out from him.

**« I tried to save you, Lord Arryn! I swear by the Gods, I tried!** **»**

Jon's apparition held a gentle hand to cup Daveth's chin and wipe away the tears which fell from the Young Stag's face.  _"But you can't save everyone. Come now, it's alright. Even now I can still see the pain and the anger towards the burden you've been forced to carry every day. I know you don't wish to give such emotions voice, but I assure you, only the Gods know your heart."_

**« But… but I don't know how to.** **»**

_"You fear it because you think it is weakness? No. You think I'm some kind of ghost sent by the Father to punish you? No. The path laid before you will always remain a constant struggle, and every day you will face obstacles. Yes, you may stumble or even stray from the path… but there are still people out there who care for you; who want to help you."_

The apparition of Jon Arryn pointed behind Daveth, making the Young Stag turn his head to see many of those closest to him who still remain in the world of the living, including his sister Myrcella Baratheon, his youngest brother Tommen Baratheon, his uncles Tyrion and Jaime Lannister, Lucius Blackmyre, Barristan Selmy, Robb Stark, Bodrin… and Sansa Stark. The image of the Wolf Queen had one hand placed on her swollen belly, massaging it gently as she smiled warmly at him.

Before the Young Stag could say anything, more apparitions manifesting the people Daveth lost in the past stand beside Jon Arryn; amongst them stood Darnis Swyft, Culler, Alrah, his father Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark.

_"It's been a long time,"_  exclaimed Alrah.

Jon's apparition took a moment to part one final lesson.  _"No more must you grieve for us, my boy. Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go."_

_"You have such a long road ahead of you, Your Grace, and you must be prepared to face it,"_  Eddard advised.  _"All our trust and faith is now on your hands. We know you'll do the right thing in the end. It is time."_

_"It's alright, Daveth. We forgive you,"_  motioned Culler.

_"This is how it should be, so don't even think of backing down now, boy!"_  Robert bellowed.  _"Get back out there and show 'em what for!"_

_"I know it still hurts, but we're always with you – even if you can't see us anymore,"_  Darnis spoke up.

_"We forgive you."_

_"We all do."_

_"We'll always be with you."_

_"Set your eyes on the horizon."_

_"Now… awaken, and carry with you our love and forgiveness, child. And know that you are never alone,"_  Jon said before he and the others started dissipating.

Daveth choked up. For a long time he'd been suppressing his feelings deep down, not displaying any emotion on the surface. But seeing them all again and watching them leave to the unknown, Daveth wiped away his tears with his left arm and gained a renewed sense of purpose. Smiling briefly, he closed his eyes and reached outwards.

**« Lord Arryn… thank you. For everything.** **»**

* * *

**At the battle encampments surrounding Moat Cailin…**

* * *

"Look!"

Talisa, Jaime, Barristan, Lucius and Meryn observed Daveth's motions. For a while now, his closed eyes had been twitching rapidly before finally settling. His grip on the sheets loosened and his breathing became calm and steady. As more onlookers came pouring into the main tent, Daveth slowly opened both his eyes and took a moment to examine his surroundings. Talisa herself was taken by surprise.

_'Something's not right! He shouldn't be awake this early,'_  she rationalized.

"Someone go inform Robb Stark that King Daveth is awake!" Jaime ordered.

Shouts and movement flooded the tent, though Daveth gave a small wince as he remembered the surgical work that was done on him hours earlier. Instead he remained still on his back as Robb Stark came into the command tent.

"My friend," Robb said relieved.

Daveth gave no expression, his mind still disoriented from the milk of the poppy. "Hello, Robb," he said finally.

Talisa placed a hand on Daveth's left shoulder, motioning him to remain motionless. "Easy, Your Grace. Try not to move. I'll get some essence of nightshade."

Daveth said nothing as he watched the Volantenes healer leave to fetch some more healing herbs and something to help him sleep. It was already the middle of the night, and it would be a long road to recovery. Daveth bit his cheek and winced again. He was still alive, and in a few weeks he would be back on his feet and rejoin the battlefield in no time; might take him a while, though. Best not to re-open his wounds and risk losing an arm or his life for that matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never did I ever expect to have to write a scene that gives us a firsthand look into Daveth Baratheon's consciousness, a struggle with his inner demons. Guess we all have to deal with them at some point in our lives; so I figured I try to strike at the core (to the best of my ability). I also figured I'd take a modern lyric to include them in the dream cycle so as to give the scenes some "umph". I've included a superscript [1] attached to it so you guys know exactly where I heard it. Listen to it. I'm sure you'll like it. Thoughts on Daveth's struggle with his own inner demons? Let me know.
> 
> [1] – "Silent Running (On Dangerous Ground)" [Remastered] by Mike + the Mechanics.


	51. I Know What You Did

* * *

**At Moat Cailin…**

* * *

"Good, now try to flex your fingers for just a moment, Your Grace," Talisa implored.

 

Daveth Baratheon sat on the edge of his makeshift bed inside his command tent, his right arm stretched out as he moved his fingers in and out of his palm. It had been several days since the combined forces drove the ironborn out of Moat Cailin, a major victory despite sustaining such heavy losses. Per the medical advice of Robb Stark's wife Talisa, Daveth had been taking it easy and wore light clothing to give himself a chance to heal. Talisa observed the Young Stag's digits curling and releasing before he eventually laid his arm down.

"Hmm. If you were someone else, I would have said that you'd probably never use that arm again."

"And now?" Daveth implored.

Talisa examined the Young Stag's shoulder more closely, dabbing a small dose of medical ointment as she changed his bandages. "You are not like any other man I've met, Your Grace. Give yourself another week, and you'll be swinging your sword again in no time. But for now, I'd advise you not to overextend yourself again and give your body a chance to heal. Otherwise your stitches will rip open and your wounds will become infected. I'll be forced to amputate."

"Well, I suppose it's for the best that sort of scenario does not occur anytime soon now, should it?"

"No, it should not." Talisa stood up and moved to exit the tent, before looking back over her shoulder. "I'll be back to check up on you soon, Your Grace. And remember what I said, you hear?"

Daveth nodded as Talisa curtsied and left to tend to her other patients. He slowly stood up from his bed, elevating one side of his body to avoid applying too much pressure on the other as he went to dress himself. Slowly easing his arms through each sleeve of his shirt and buttoning his leather vest, Daveth heard footsteps through the grass approaching and turned to see his uncle, Jaime Lannister, standing guard.

"Somehow I knew you'd stop by, uncle."

Jaime raised an eyebrow. "And somehow I shouldn't be surprised to see you up and walking about after enduring such a battle, nephew," he retorted whimsically. "You never were the kind of lad to sit around forever."

"With so much at stake? How could I not?"

The Kingslayer's witty rhetoric soon turned serious. "I've been meaning to discuss what happened earlier. I advised you not to go after Victarion Greyjoy alone, even with Stark and his pet backing you up. Yet you did it anyway. Although the battle was indeed a successful one, everyone saw you passing out in the middle of a wet, muddy field. Why?"

Daveth knew this was coming. "You once told me that a good commander must remain level-headed and composed, even in the direst of circumstances. Anything else was a distraction. If I overextended myself too far, I'll lose more than we've gained. I was…"

"'You were…?'"

"I was angry. For eleven years, I was driven by my thirst for vengeance, to make those who've wronged me in the past suffer for it. So great was my rage that it blinded me to what I was slowly becoming."

"And what did you learn?"

The Young Stag slowly inhaled through his nostrils before exhaling; this was much harder for him to admit – but he had to try to explain. "I thought that if I handled everything on my own, shoulder every burden, endure so much hardship for as long as I could, I could prevent others around me from experiencing the same pain as I had. But such motivations make one arrogant. I know now that there are just some things I can't handle by myself."

Jaime stood and listened as his nephew explained what this journey for him has taught him; and the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock couldn't help but feel a sense of pride as his own nephew was beginning to understand what others around him had tried to advise him. That by letting go of the past and moving forward, Daveth would become an even greater King – perhaps more so than his Oathkeeper reputation. Regardless, he merely stood there and listened as Daveth resumed discussing his "revelations".

"For me, I need to maintain balance to ensure the proper stability if I'm to ever let go of the past and move on with my life. And I know I have a problem with my temper whenever I get so riled up. But I'll need help from people such as yourself to curtail it."

"So does this mean you'll finally start listening to me?"

"Of course, uncle. I'd be a poor King if I said otherwise, considering how much we've been through already. Most intentions start off as sound, but it's a rare thing to maintain course when they're hardly spoken of at all."

Jaime nodded his head in approval. "Well, it's good to hear that you're finally beginning to turn yourself around after all this time, nephew. But the road ahead of us will only put your, uh, 'renewed' sense of purpose to the test. It'll take a lot from you to steer clear of going down that dark road gain."

"I imagine it's something you yourself had to endure for quite a long time then?"

"More than you'd imagine. All nineteen years of it so far."

"How many lives did you have to take to be put through such a trial?"

"I… don't know. I honestly just don't know, nephew."

"Countless, I presume?"

Jaime seemed lost in thought, before returning his eyes to Daveth's. "Countless has a nice ring to it."

"And how many lives did you save in turn?" Daveth asked.

"Half a million," the Kingslayer answered. "The population of King's Landing."

Daveth looked at Jaime, suspecting there was a story behind to what his uncle was telling him. The moment he briefly looked away, it revealed that there was indeed something Jaime wanted to tell him. Since they were alone in the command tent, Daveth figured that now was the time to figure out what exactly was troubling Jaime as of late.

"There's more to it than that, isn't there?"

Again, the Kingslayer looked away – his eyes briefly locked on the royal forces licking their wounds before they'd eventually be on the move once again. Before long, Jaime hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath until he exhaled loudly but only loud enough for Daveth to hear it.

"I haven't told you the reason why people kept calling me 'Kingslayer', 'Oathbreaker' and 'A man without honor', haven't I?" Jaime stated.

Daveth shook his head. "Only that you killed the Mad King, but other than that you didn't feel like talking about it. I assumed that since it bothered you so much, uncle, I needn't have to press you about such a sensitive subject."

"Well, as appreciative I am of that, still… it's something that you need to know. About why I did what I did."

"Why?" the Young Stag raised an eyebrow.

"For starters, you're the King. Secondly, I fear it'll affect your reign in the long term if left ignored for too long."

"Then… tell me, Ser Jaime. What exactly happened on that day when you killed the Mad King Aerys Targaryen?"

From start to finish, Jaime retold his side of the story; describing the events that had occurred nearly twenty years ago during the final stages of Robert's Rebellion, particularly the Sack of King's Landing when his father Tywin Lannister marched with the full power of Casterly Rock to the capital city after the Battle of the Trident. Aerys' advisors urged him not to trust Tywin, even Jaime, who knew his father would never back the losing side in a war.

Nevertheless, on Grand Maester Pycelle's advice, the gates were opened to the massive Lannister army. Jaime recalled that Tywin had ordered the city to be forcibly taken and eliminate the royal family in a quick and efficient manner; as a result the city was sacked and almost all of House Targaryen were brutally murdered by Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane. Jaime again recalls that Aerys ordered him to bring him Tywin's head upon seeing Tywin's betrayal and instructed his royal pyromancer Wisdom Rossart to burn King's Landing to the ground. In response, Jaime murdered Rossart before stabbing the Mad King in the back. When Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark reached the Red Keep, Tywin presented the bodies of the royal family as proof of his allegiance.

Daveth simply stood there silently with a closed hand resting under his chin, listening to every word that his uncle had told him. His grandfather sacking King's Landing, Gregor Clegane's murder of Ellia Martell and her children… and more importantly the wildfire plot. The numerous amounts of wildfire caches placed all throughout the capital city.

"This is… rather disturbing," Daveth mused. "And these wildfire caches, do you remember where the Mad King's pyromancers placed them?"

Jaime nodded. "Beneath the Sept of Baelor, the slums of Flea Bottom, under houses, stables, taverns… even the Red Keep itself."

"Who else knows of this?"

"Ser Barristan. I told him the day before your wedding."

"So that's why people call you 'Kingslayer'…"

"What does it matter, nephew? That was almost twenty years ago, long before you or your brothers and sister were born. What's done is done. There's no changing that."

"No, I suppose there isn't," the Young Stag replied, taking a moment to stare in the mirror before turning back to Jaime. "Still, I appreciate you telling me the truth, uncle. What you did saved countless lives – even though the rest of Westeros will never thank you for ending such an evil man."

Jaime looked visibly surprised; knowing that he had already committed a dishonorable act by violating a sacred oath as a member of the Kingsguard and had to bear the shame his entire life, to hear someone actually thank him for what he did was something the Golden Lion of Casterly Rock wasn't particularly used to. Deep down, however, Jaime felt a sense of relief; feeling as if a heavy burden was being lifted off his shoulders.

"Still, I broke a sacred oath and stabbed my King in the back. What sort of atonement do I deserve for my sins?" Jaime asked regardless.

Daveth shook his head. "What does it matter?" he repeated his uncle's words. "The right choice is not always the easiest to make, even if it means we have to break a vow when it conflicts with another and being reviled for it in the end. You did the right thing, uncle; I don't blame you for feeling the way you do."

"If that's the case, nephew, then why haven't you cast me out of the Kingsguard?"

"Because one, you are my uncle; my own flesh and blood. Second, a knight of the Kingsguard serves for life. Only death relieves you of your vows. And third, I believe there is good in you."

Jaime narrowed his eyes. "And how can you tell?"

"Because you're not as subtle as you think you are," Daveth answered. "Even if you believe your honor is too far gone, there's a distinctive look in your eye that says otherwise. You're more mindful than you let on. It won't be easy, but if you can take that one small step, then anything's possible."

Jaime said nothing, thinking about his nephew's words carefully. Reevaluate his past and future, was it truly possible to at least develop some sense of personal honor? He wasn't sure considering how people perceive goodness and honor after he killed a man who had infamously terrorized the Seven Kingdoms, opening his eyes to such concepts. Still, Jaime felt rather comfortable.

"I guess hearing that from the Oathkeeper is supposed to mean something, isn't it?" Jaime humorously quipped.

Daveth shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Seven hells, uncle, we were having a moment and now you've ruined it!"

Jaime chuckled as he traded back-and-forth tirades with his nephew. With his willful admission, the bond between the Kingslayer and Oathkeeper grew closer as a result; before they had respected each other's skills in battle yet with little else. But this was hopefully just the beginning.

Despite this uncle-nephew bonding session, they were interrupted when Olyvar Frey came into the tent.

"Sorry to intrude, Your Grace," Olyvar knelt, "but I've come bearing a message from some Northmen with a flayed man for a sigil."

Daveth and Jaime turned to see Olyvar, clearly annoyed at the interruption. Regardless, Daveth nodded to his uncle and redirected his attention to his squire.

"You speak of Roose Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort," the Young Stag corrected him. "Regardless, what did the message say?"

"He said his men have, uh… captured Theon Greyjoy not too far from here. They're on their way to the main camp as we speak."

_'Theon, Balon Grejyoy's lone surviving son and heir…'_  thought Daveth. "I see. And tell me, how exactly did Theon Greyjoy get that far out all on his own? Last I heard he was with my brother-in-law Robb Stark at Riverrun before his father Balon decided to take up arms against the crown again."

"He was, but my father Lord Walder Frey sent me and several of my brothers to Riverrun to attend the Young Wolf's wedding to that… foreigner. It was there that we learned of Lord Stark's… decision to let the Greyjoy go to the Iron Islands of his own volition."

Daveth honestly couldn't believe what he was hearing. How could Robb have been so stupid as to let Theon Greyjoy go when he was a valuable hostage? He stared blankly into the distance, quietly examining his squire's posture and tone of his voice. If Olyvar was lying, he would have known already and be punished for it. But… as Daveth eyed Olyvar up and down, looked deeply into the Frey's eyes, to his surprise (and mostly shock) he saw no attempt at deception on his squire's part. Olyvar was telling the truth.

The Young Stag shook his head and quickly regained his composure. "If there is nothing else, go inform Lord Bolton that I'll see to the matter personally once they arrive. Also, tell the soldiers that they are hereby required to keep their swords in their sheaths. They are not to move a muscle without my consent. That is not a request. Understood?"

Olyvar nodded. "Loud and clear, Your Grace."

The young Frey left the camp to inform Roose Bolton, leaving Daveth and Jaime alone again.

"What will your intentions be with the Greyjoy lad?" asked Jaime.

Daveth inhaled before exhaling slowly. "I'll let you know, uncle. Give me a moment for now."

As Jaime left, Daveth again looked at the mirror. Tracing his finger across the scar above his left eye before glancing down at the fresh ones on his right shoulder, torso and left flank, Daveth had seemingly turned the page on his life; he still felt a part of his psyche scream out for blood whilst the other called for restraint and logical reason. But the Young Stag will make his decision once his mind is properly cleared before he could make any sort of judgment at all.

_'I cannot believe you of all people would do that, Robb. I know what you did. You and I will be having a long, long talk soon enough. On that, you have my word.'_

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Queen Sansa Stark wasn't feeling well at all. Ever since she discovered she was pregnant, Sansa was overjoyed with the prospect of welcoming her first child with Daveth. What she did not expect was that pregnancy would make her feel this ill at all; nor did Sansa expect Balon Greyjoy to ruin such a joyous occasion by deciding to rebel again and send Daveth spiraling into an enraged frenzy. Kneeling over a barrel, she felt her gorge rising. Leaning over, Sansa evacuates her stomach, vomiting into the barrel a wet, disgusting blob that tasted strongly of bile. Still on her knees Sansa could still taste the bile in her mouth, making want to gag again.

  

"By the Gods…" Sansa moaned.

Gently patting her back, her mother Catelyn and handmaiden Shae comforted Sansa as best as they possibly could.

"Easy now, Your Grace," spoke Shae softly.

"It'll be alright, Sansa," her mother said. "The first pregnancy always seems unbearable, but it's common for us women to experience such symptoms. Believe me, dear, your baby will grow strong and healthy."

Sansa wiped her mouth with a small cloth before massaging her stomach in a gentle, circular motion. A small bump had been developing in her lower abdomen during the past several weeks now; her baby,  _her_ son or daughter. What Catelyn told her regarding her sickness meant that lots of symptoms Sansa's been displaying so far is a result of her pregnancy hormones are working hard to support her unborn child. In addition, Sansa noticed during the first two weeks that her lower back and feet were aching more frequently and her breasts were swelling. Her direwolf, Lady, brought a paw protectively on her mistress's shoulder.

In the doorway stood Ariyana Dayne and Brienne of Tarth, guarding the entrance whilst keeping a close eye on Queen Sansa and her guests. The two women donned new attire; in acknowledgment of their dedication to protecting Sansa, King Daveth rewarded them. What sent shockwaves and ripple effects throughout the Seven Kingdoms, Daveth appointed Ariyana and Brienne as the first women to the Kingsguard. It was a seen as a sign of change by many, accompanied by scorn. Nonetheless, both women donned the golden Kingsguard armor and white cloak to fit. Ariyana and Brienne remembered the historic occasion that took place before the Iron Throne.

**ooOoo**

_"Ariyana of House Dayne, Brienne of House Tarth," Daveth motioned for the two women. Both of them knelt before the Iron Throne, with several lords and ladies of the quietly court observing the announcement. "In acknowledgment for your service to the throne and ensuring the safety of the royal family, I bequeath that the two of you are to be commended. Is there any boon you would ask of your King? If it is within my power, I will grant it."_

_Ariyana raised her head up. "Your Grace, I humbly request that I be given the honor of a place in your Kingsguard. I will be one of your seven, pledge my life in service and keep you and your family safe from all harm."_

_Gasps and exclaims were heard, the sounds echoing throughout the chamber as Brienne followed suit._

_"Your Grace," Brienne spoke up. "I too ask that I be given a place in the Kinsguard. I will be one of your seven, pledge my life in service and keep you and your family safe from all harm."_

_Shouts were heard from the gallery, such as "disgraceful" or "shame" – regardless, a few onlookers were removed from the court. Standing beside the King was Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Kinsguard, who looked at Daveth for confirmation. The Young Stag had placed his chin on his fist, observing Ariyana and Brienne respectively. He had been evaluating their skills for quite some time and had come to the conclusion that both Ariyana and Brienne were not only skilled in combat, but had the code of a true knight._

_Daveth nodded. "Done," he announced._

_Ser Barristan soon stepped down from the Iron Throne, unsheathed his sword and held it in a ceremonial stance. Both Ariyana and Brienne kept their heads lowered as the blade tapped their shoulders as two more Kingsguard knights circled around them to put on the white cloak._

_"As Lord Commander, I hereby elevate Ariyana of House Dayne and Brienne of House Tarth to the Kingsguard. Bound by a sacred oath of brotherhood, you are hereby asked to dedicate a life of service protecting the King and his descendants. Place the white cloaks over your shoulders, and say your vows."_

_"Under the grace of House Baratheon, I, Ariyana Dayne, hereby swear on my honor and my allegiance to protect the King and his family. I will perform my duty until death, and through that time, keep all secrets of the King safe from spread. I will not speak unless spoken to, and I will defend the King's land or pay the price. I will not wed, bore no children and hold no land. I will master the gate, pluck the bow, handle the blade and serve my realm: now and forever."_

_"Under the grace of House Baratheon, I, Brienne of Tarth, do hereby swear on my honor and my allegiance to protect the King and his family. I will perform my duty until death, and through that time, keep all secrets of the King safe from spread. I will not speak unless spoken to, and I will defend the King's land or pay the price. I will not wed, bore no children and hold no land. I will master the gate, pluck the bow, handle the blade and serve my realm: now and forever."_

_As the white cloak clamped down, Daveth stood from the throne. "And so it is done. Arise, Ariyana Dayne and Brienne of Tarth, knights of the Kingsguard."_

_Several rounds of applause erupted from the highborn ladies, for they had the privilege of witnessing the first women in Westerosi history becoming members of the Kingsguard. Brienne felt indifferent, for it was something that rang a sense of familiarity to her when she was in Renly Baratheon's service. Now she finds herself in service to his nephew. Ariyana, however, quietly observed the Master of Laws Prince Oberyn Martell in the gallery. The two exchanged nods as the applause slowly died down._

**ooOoo**

Ariyana and Brienne remained on guard before noticing Cersei Lannister approaching the room.

"Give us a moment," Cersei requested.

Ariyana looked at Brienne, before stepping aside – allowing the Queen Mother entrance. Catelyn and Shae looked at Cersei, the Lorathi handmaiden curtsied before making her way out. With just the three of them in the room, there was an intense moment filling the air. Lady moved in between Sansa and Cersei, her ears folded back – ready to defend her mistress if necessary.

"I see you still keep that beast around," Cersei noticed. "Walk with me, little dove."

Sansa moved to get up, but Catelyn looked back at her. "Sansa, you need your rest," she said rather firmly. "I'll deal with the rest. For now, you just focus on the well-being of the baby."

Cersei did not like being denied of anything, or a prize being kept away from her. But then again this allowed her a moment with her new sister-in-law. The Tully-turned-Stark matriarch grew more serious as Catelyn walked out with Cersei, clearly intending on keeping the Golden Lioness away from her daughter before she tried anything suspicious. Once they were finally alone in the hallway, Catelyn decided to press the matter as soon as Sansa was placed back onto the bed.

"What are you up to, Cersei?" she calmly demanded.

Cersei feigned ignorance. "You clearly misinterpret my intentions, Lady Stark. Recall my earlier sentiment back in Winterfell, where we'd eventually share a grandchild."

"Yet my daughter tells me otherwise. She tells me that you've treated her with nothing but contempt when I'm not around. Don't even think for a second that you'll walk away from that solely on the basis that you are the mother of our King."

"So be it," she dropped the act. "I'm not the kind of mother to share her son with another woman. Your daughter's been quite a she-wolf recently. And that beast of hers… I thought I'd made myself clear that I wouldn't tolerate such an animal like that in the city after it mauled Joffrey's arm two years ago. I want it gone."

"Unfortunately, that's not your call to make anymore."

"Then you clearly can't comprehend that a Lannister always pays her debts. We have no rivals."

"To believe so clearly demonstrates one's own ignorance and blatant disregard of reality. Every house has a rival; the Gods do not discriminate."

"Then tell me, Cat, did the Gods deem that your daughter take my son from me and send him off to war?"

Catelyn shook her head, but kept her composure. "You're not the only one worrying about their son whenever they strike out on their own."

"It would have been more seemly that the King and his… companion remain in their homes and send more capable men in their steads, rather than chasing glory on the battlefield like fools."

"Both of our sons are  _fighting_  a war, Cersei, not  _playing_  at one," Catelyn replied with icy courtesy. "I worry about my son just as much as you do yours, but sooner or later every mother has to come to terms that Daveth and Robb are not little boys anymore. We don't have to approve of their choices, but we need to respect their wishes."

"I don't believe that," Cersei hissed. "And I don't appreciate your tone, Lady Stark. I suggest you bring it down or—"

"Or what? You'll have me or any of my daughters harmed? You know very well our sons will never let that stand."

Catelyn could scarcely imagine what she might need that had not already been provided. Cersei frowned at being told off again, still feeling bitter and resentful about losing her status. Before she turned to leave in a huff, Cersei took one last glance over her shoulder.

"A Lannister always pays her debts, Lady Stark," she warned her. "And you will all regret the day you chose to tug the lion's tail."

Catelyn paid her no mind as Cersei walked away. She returned to Sansa's room as she watched her daughter lying down on her side to ease her discomfort.

"Mother? Is everything all right?" Sansa asked.

Catelyn put on a motherly smile. "Try not to worry, sweetling," she shook her head, placing a cold cloth on Sansa's forehead and rubbing her daughter's swollen belly. "Besides, we need you in perfect health if I'm to ever see my first grandchild, wouldn't we?"

Sansa smiled. "Mother, tell me. Will I have a boy or a girl?"

"I don't know, sweetling," she answered. "But no matter what comes, whether you grace us with a little prince or princess, we all love you."

"I love you too, mother."

The Wolf Queen's smile soon turned into a rather sad frown. Catelyn noticed this.

"What's wrong?" she asked concerned.

Sansa wiped her eyes. "I'm just… I'm worried about Robb, and my husband."

_'I know you are, Sansa. I am too,'_  the Stark matriarch thought. "I know you are. But have faith, Sansa. They'll come back to us in one piece."

"I hope so, mother. I… I want my husband back. I want Daveth to be here when the baby's born."

Catelyn placed a finger to Sansa's lips. "Hush now, dear. Daveth  _will_  come back whether he likes it or not. You know he'd never abandon you, otherwise he'd be facing each of the Seven aspects' fury if he does. Now rest your eyes, and care for the baby. I'll be right here, Sansa. Your mother is not going to leave you."

Sansa's frowned turned to a relieved smile, nodding her head. "Your grandchild will absolutely love you."

Catelyn smiled warmly as she watched Sansa slowly drift off to sleep; such innocence was her daughter, even Lady propped her head atop the mattress – standing guard over her mistress. Such moments like this made Brienne smile; Ariyana, meanwhile, sighed as it brought forth old memories.

Unbeknownst to them, the moment Cersei had turned the corner and, once in the shadows, stood in front of a tall figure. Judging by the looks of him, he was rather muscular and had dried blood stains.

"Were you followed?" she asked.

The man shook his head. "No."

"Good. Be sure your 'fun' is restrictive to Flea Bottom."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there was a bonding moment between Daveth Baratheon and his uncle Ser Jaime Lannister. A bit of a slow travel towards redemption and contemplation involved on the Young Stag's part, but then Olyvar Frey just had to bring word of Theon Greyjoy's capture by Locke and his men in-person. And now Daveth knows that Robb let Theon go. With his new mindset and learning of this act, how do you think relations between Baratheon and Stark will be? And how will Daveth's relationship with Jaime will be from then on?
> 
> Also, to be certain of the travel distance from King's Landing to Moat Cailin, the amount of time to travel between these two locations from the Kingsroad would be an estimated 1,420 miles with an army carrying a supply train can move at an average pace of 11 miles per day and use a rest day so as to not push the horses too hard. So for now the royal forces led by Daveth Baratheon had to at least travel at least 37-40 miles (between 41 or 53 days/6 or 7 weeks) on horseback via the Kingsroad before taking a little detour at the Twins to reach his destination. Robb Stark only had to make it to Moat Cailin in 2 days after landing at White Harbor. Again, math is not my best subject. Feel free to correct me if you see any mistakes and I'll do my best to rectify it.
> 
> Distance map can be checked out ― www.sermountaingoat.co.uk/timeline/info/travel.xls
> 
> How far a horse travels in one day ― www.cartographersguildshowthread.php?t=19730


	52. Assassination of Lysa Arryn

* * *

**At the Eyrie…**

* * *

 

Outside, snowflakes were beginning to fall on the Eyrie. But the Lady Regent of the Vale, Lysa Arryn, was in a foul mood with her handmaiden. Lysa was dressed in a gown of cream-colored velvet and a necklace of sapphires and moonstones. Her auburn hair had been done up in a thick braid, and fell across one shoulder.

"I've already told you, we've already bent the knee to that stag boy and that's the end of it! The knights of the Vale will  _stay_  in the Vale!" shouted Lady Lysa annoyed.

Eleana moved to keep up with her mistress. "Forgive me, mistress, but I really must protest! The ravens we received were a royal decree from the King himself. Should you refuse the command again—"

Lysa spun around, "I don't care what the decree was, girl!"

She was in a foul mood, as lonely as she was. Her new husband Petyr Baelish seemed to spend more time at the foot of the mountain than he did atop it. He had been gone from the Eyrie for some time, meeting with the Corbrays. From bits and pieces of overheard conversations Eleana knew that the deceased Lord Jon Arryn's bannermen resented Lysa's marriage and begrudged Littlefinger himself his authority as Lord Protector of the Vale. House Royce came close to open revolt over Lysa's failure to aid Daveth Baratheon in the rebellion against Renly Baratheon, and Houses Waynwoods, Redforts, Belmores, and Templetons were giving them every support. Accompanying both of them was Marillion, a troubadour and singer wandering the Seven Kingdoms selling his musical skills in return for bed, board and coin. When he played for them at supper, the young singer often seemed to be singing directly at Eleana. Her mistress was far from pleased. Lady Lysa doted on Marillion, and had banished two serving girls and even a page for telling lies about him. Eleana looked about uncertainly. Despite swearing an oath of fealty, Lysa still refused to provide support when the call was rung. Although she tried to persuade her mistress that failure to do so for the second time would only bring about unnecessary trouble, it would be for naught as Lysa again did not listen to reason.

They made their way to the High Hall, where the Moon Door stood in its foundation in the middle of the room. Above it was the highbacked chair of carved weirwood. The chair next to it was taller with a stack of blue cushions piled on the seat – reserved for the Lord of the Eyrie, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, but Robin Arryn wasn't there. Both Eleana and Lysa walked down the blue silk carpet between rows of fluted pillars slim as lances. The floors and walls of the High Hall were made of milk-white marble veined with blue. Shafts of pale daylight slanted down through narrow arched windows along the eastern wall. Between the windows were torches, mounted in high iron sconces, but none of them was lit. Her footsteps fell softly on the carpet. Outside the wind blew cold and lonely. Amidst so much white marble even the sunlight looked chilly, somehow… though not half so chilly as her mistress. On the wall behind them hung a huge banner, the moon-and-falcon of House Arryn in cream and blue. 

Lysa glared at Eleana with such heated intensity, even as the soft chords Marillion were playing in the hopes of settling the widow Arryn down. "I raised you up from nothing. Took you in as my handmaiden after your mother passed away of a fever.  _You_  had nowhere else to go, yet I permitted you to stay by  _my_  leave," Lysa stared her down, poking her rather hard. " _I_  could have easily had you banished from my sight.  _I_  took you into my service since you were a little girl. And yet you constantly lean over my shoulder making such demands of  _me_? Of  _my_  sweet Robin?  _Your liege lord_? Tell me, girl: do you consider yourself above your station?"

Eleana shook her head. "N-no, mistress! I only meant that—"

"Oh, drop the coy deceiving act with me," she cut her off.

The High Hall seemed to grow a little colder. The walls and floors and columns might have turned to ice itself.

"I live to serve you, Lady Arryn! I swear, by the Old Gods and the New, I'd never repay your hospitality with such treachery. I… I'm just concerned about your well-being, and the well-being of your son, Lord Arryn!"

Lysa's nostrils flared. "Then you get this clear into your thick, empty-headed skull of yours: the knights of the Vale will  _stay_  in the Vale! And you will never bring that up again with me! I could've had more things to do with my spare time. I have a husband. He has a wife who loves him. A woman grown, not— Ooh, you sneaky bitch," she hissed quietly. "Now I see what you're up to."

"Mistress?" said Eleana confused and worried.

"You've been asking me to send my knights off to war just so you could leave my son vulnerable from the Lannisters and sneak around behind my back and steal Petyr away from me, aren't you?"

Eleana took a step backward. "No, mistress! That's not true!" she denied.

"Then why are you trying to walk away from me when I'm talking to you? Are you afraid? Such wanton behavior must be punished, but I won't be hard on you. You'll need the rod. I'll find some common girl to take your whipping, but first you must own up to what you've done. I cannot abide a compulsive liar, Eleana."

"I'm not lying, mistress," she insisted.

"Have you no honor?" Lady Arryn said sharply. "Look down the Moon Door, then."

Reluctantly, Eleana steadily turned to stare at the Moon Door. It was a narrow crescent moon-shaped hatch built into the floor between two slender pillars in the High Hall through which opened people can fall 600 feet from the sky to the floor of the Vale below. Being thrown through the Moon Door is the preferred method of execution at the Eyrie since the highborn lords and ladies of the Vale had no headsman of their own.

"Do you know how far the fall is?"

Eleana shook her head. "No, mistress."

"Neither do I, precisely," Lysa admitted. "Hundreds of feet. It's fascinating what happens to bodies when they hit the rocks from such a height. The impact breaks them right apart. Like eggs dropped on the floor. Sometimes pieces remain intact. You'll find the head sitting on its own, every hair in place, blue eyes staring at nothing. Perhaps you don't need the rod after all, you little whore."

Now finding herself shaking at the fear of whatever fate has in store for her, Eleana furiously shook her head. "Mistress, please!" she pleaded. Was Lysa drunk or mad? Or both? "This isn't what—"

"Be quiet, I haven't given you permission to speak."

All of Eleana's reasoning and resolve had withered in the face of her mistress's onslaught. Lysa Arryn was frightening her as much as she had ever been these past eighteen years.

"I… I'm sorry for offending you, mistress," she said, trying to sound meek and contrite. "I swear I'm not deceiving you nor am I enticing Lord Baelish. M-may I have your leave to go?"

Lysa shook her head. "No, you may not," she grabbed her by the wrist. "I've been lenient on you for far too long, girl."

"Mistress, please! You're hurting me," Eleana squirmed. "I'm sorry, mistress. I didn't mean to offend you! I swear!"

The Lady Regent of the Vale ignored her protests. "Marillion!" she shouted. "Come here! I need you!"

The singer had remained discreetly in the rear of the hall, but at Lady Arryn's shout he came at once. "My lady?"

"Play us a song. Play  _'The False and the Fair.'_ "

Marillion's fingers brushed the strings. "The lord he came a-riding upon a rainy day, hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey…" he sang.

Lady Lysa yanked Eleana's arm rather harshly, but when Eleana heard and felt a blast of cold air brushing by rather loudly – she shivered, turned and noticed the crescent moon-carved hatch opening. Realizing what Lysa was planning, Eleana planted her feet down.

"No, mistress! Please, not that! Not the Moon Door!" she tried to yank free.

"The lady sat a-sewing upon a rainy day," Marillion continued singing. "Hey-nonny, hey-nonny, hey-nonny-hey."

"Look down," said Lysa, digging her fingers into Eleana's arm like claws. "Look down."

Eleana still tried to wrench herself free, but when Lysa used her other hand to grab a handful of the young maiden's hair she shoved her down – forcing Eleana to look down the Moon Door, noticing the open sky and the 600 foot drop below.

"Don't!" she wailed, screaming in terror. "Don't do it! Please!"

"Do you still want my leave to go? Do you?"

"No! Not like this!" Eleana planted her feet and tried to squirm backwards, but Lysa did not budge. Not as long as she maintained a firm grip on her hair. The handmaiden twisted sideways, hysterical with fear. She was shaking, sobbing. "Mistress! Mistress, please let go of me!"

"You couldn't stop butting in my affairs! He is mine! Petyr is mine! My father, my husband, my sister, they all stood between us!" Lysa screamed in Eleana's face, purely delusional as she kept pushing her handmaiden further downwards. "Now learn! This is what happens to people who stand between Petyr and me!"

They teetered on the edge. Far off, she heard the guards pounding on the door with their spears, demanding to be let in. Marillion abruptly broke off his song once he heard the main doors opening and closing loudly.

"Lysa! Let her go."

Lady Lysa turned to see who called out to her, hearing footsteps echoing down the High Hall. Petyr Baelish had come home early, through the lords' entrance behind the dias. As Lysa turned, her grip loosened enough for Eleana to finally break free. She stumbled to her knees, gasping sobs as she remained visibly shaken.

"Eleana's your trusted handmaiden," Petyr pointed out. "She's served you faithfully since she was a little girl. What did you think you were doing?"

"I'm punishing her! She has no gratitude, no… no decency at all. That was all; such a stupid empty-headed girl."

"I see," he stroked his chin slightly. "Still, I believe she knows her place. Isn't that right, Eleana?"

"Yes," sobbed Eleana fearfully. "I know my place now."

Lysa's eyes were shiny with tears. "I don't want her here anymore. I brought her into my care after her mother died, Petyr. And this is how she repays my trust? She doesn't belong here anymore. I'll send her away! I swear on my life. I swear to all the gods!"

Petyr glance down at the quivering handmaiden. "Get off your knees, girl. See to the Lord of the Vale's needs until we get back."

"Please… please don't send me away. I'll be good. I-I promise," she whined, crawling away from the Moon Door on hands and knees towards the main door.

"NO!" Lysa screamed hysterically. "She claims to be innocent, but I know the way she looks at you. She doesn't love you the way I do. I've always loved you. I lied for you. I killed for you. I gave you my virginity, Petyr!"

"Oh, my sweet wife," Littlefinger moved closer, embracing her warmly. "My sweet, silly wife. You ought not to talk so much. We don't want Eleana to know more than she should, do we? Or Marillion?"

Lysa ignored him. "My sister never gave you anything. It was me who got you your first post, who made Jon bring you to court so we could be close to one another. You promised me you would never forget that."

"Nor have I, love." Petyr took another step. "We're together now, just as you always wanted, just as we always planned. After all the storms we've suffered, I shall never leave your side again, for as long as we both shall live."

"Truly?" she asked. "You really mean it this time?"

Marillion stood by the nearest pillar, oblivious as to what was going on. He wasn't singing anymore, eavesdropping closely on their conversation. But what he didn't realize was that Petyr and Lysa were near the edge of the Moon Door.

Littlefinger held Lysa against his chest for a moment before putting his hands on her arms. "My sweet jealous wife, I have only loved one woman, only one, my entire life."

Lysa Arryn smiled tremulously. "Only one? Oh, Petyr, do you swear it? Only one?"

"Your sister."

Her smile suddenly faded into confusion, but didn't have enough time to respond as Petyr gave Lysa a short, sharp shove. Lysa stumbled backward, her feet slipping on the wet marble. And then she was gone. She never screamed. For the longest time there was no sound but the wind. As Petyr watched Lysa fall, he turned to notice Marillion clutching his lute to his chest.

"You… you…" he gasped.

"Guards!" Petyr shouted.

On que, the men-at-arms of House Arryn burst through the door – nearly knocking down Eleana in the process. As she curled her knees to her chest, Petyr helped her to her feet.

_'She'll make a perfect candidate,'_  he thought.

"What the Seven hells is going on here?!" the guards asked.

Petyr glanced at Marillion. "Quickly! This singer's killed my wife Lady Lysa. He pushed her out the Moon Door! Seize him!"

As the House Arryn guards grabbed Marillion and led him to the dungeons, the singer resisted and protested the charges, claiming his innocence. Petyr followed suit behind them, pleased that his plans were falling into place. But unbeknownst to them, Eleana had seen what had occurred through the cracks of the door before being knocked over. She had seen everything, but couldn't find the words to talk right now considering what she went through.

**Several days later**

An 11-year-old Robin Arryn was an emotional wreck. Having lost his father at King's Landing two years ago and now his mother within their own home, Robin felt beside himself. He cried day and night for his dead mother, demanding her return – but no one answered his prayers. In a fit of rage, Robin screamed that Marillion "fly"; which most of his men did after Marillion continued professing his innocence. Unfortunately for the singer, Robin was too hysterical to even listen.

Eleana, who had been tended to by Lord Yohn Royce, Lady Anya Waynwood and Ser Vance Corbray, was given a brief leave of absence before inevitably returning to the Eyrie to tend to Robin's care. In all but name Eleana had assumed a maternal role, doing her best to fill the void in Robin's life.

"Shhh, shhh. Don't cry, my lord," Eleana spoke calmly, wiping away Robin's tears from his gently, oh so gently.

Robin sniffled. "I can't sleep one bit," his lip quivered. "Marillion hurt my mother. He made her fly out the Moon Door. He killed my mother! I want to come sleep with you!"

_'I know you do, Sweetrobin,'_  she thought sadly. Robin had been accustomed to crawling into bed with his mother until she wed Petyr Baelish.

Since Lysa's death he had taken to wandering the Eyrie in quest of other beds. Turns out the one he liked best was Eleana's. She would not have minded if he only slept, but he was always trying to nuzzle at her breasts, something Eleana didn't approve of one bit.

Petyr Baelish soon entered the room. "How is he doing?" he asked.

Eleana glanced up at him. "I fear he's still upset at the loss of his mother, my lord. Poor thing."

"Indeed. Such a child shouldn't have to endure such tragedy at a young age. We'll be sure he gets the justice he rightfully deserves," he charmed his way through. "Not much justice to be melted out in suicide, is there?"

_'Suicide? Is that what you call it? My mistress might've been… insane, but she'd never abandon her little boy in such a vile manner,'_  Eleana thought again. "Only years ago, the knights of the Vale rode behind our late Lord Jon Arryn, the Queen's father Ned Stark, and the King's father Robert Baratheon."

"And since then, Arryn and Royce, Corbray, Waynwood, all the great houses of the Vale watched from the corner. But we have bigger things to discuss. As Lord Protector of the Vale, I'm to assume guardianship until Lord Arryn comes of age."

Eleana wanted to protest, but kept her mouth shut. Once she finished buttoning Robin's shirt, she stood up and curtsied before moving to take her leave.

"I'll begin preparing supper, my lord. It should be ready for you before sundown," she bowed and left the room.

Now alone, Petyr leaned down and took his stepson's hand in his own. Guiding him down the stairs, Littlefinger informed Robin of the arrangement he made with his vassals and other bannermen. In a few days, Robin would leave the Eyrie and conduct an official tour of his lands.

**ooOoo**

_Moments earlier…_

_"On their way down, Catelyn Stark begged her sister for support when Renly Baratheon rose up in rebellion, and Lysa refused," Lord Yohn explained the situation. "By staying out of the fray, the Vale's standing with King Daveth has been… strained."_

_"And yet it is not always too late for further reconciliation, Lord Royce," Littlefinger pointed out._

_Lady Waynwood chimed in. "Yet he still speaks of Jon Arryn with high regard, and much affection as we all do."_

_"Then perhaps that's a start. Use it to rebuild."_

_"And how do you propose we begin, Lord Baelish?" Yohn asked skeptically._

_"By investing in Robin Arryn, Lord of the Vale. Make him into a lord that could make the realm tremble."_

_"Robin Arryn is a sickly little boy."_

_"And sickly little boys sometimes become powerful men. More often they die young. I adored Lysa with all my heart, but she loved her son so much she became overprotective. He needs to learn how to swing a sword, how to ride a horse."_

_Yohn nodded. "Aye, it's time. Yes."_

_"Time for him to tour the Vale, to visit all the castles in his domain," Littlefinger announced. "Time for Robin to leave the nest."_

**ooOoo**

Robin fiddled his fingers. His head was glued to the stairs, watching his small feet take each step downwards. "I've never left home before, uncle Petyr," he confessed. "I'm afraid to leave."

"You shouldn't be," Petyr replied.

"The Lord of the Vale belongs in the Eyrie, mother said. It's not safe outside."

"It wasn't safe for her inside," he countered. "People die at their dinner tables. They die in their beds. They die squatting over their chamber pots. Everybody dies sooner or later. Don't worry about your death. Worry about your life. Take charge of your life for as long as it lasts. That is what it means to be Lord of the Vale."

Robin felt unsure, nervous and scared at the new responsibility heaped upon him.

"But before that…"

Robin perked his head upwards. "What?"

"There is this," Littlefinger handed his stepson a rolled parchment, the wax seal unbroken. Robin looked at the piece of paper, examining it.

"What is this?" he asked.

"This was the royal decree from the King himself, asking the Vale for assistance in dealing with the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. It may be the King's handwriting, but it's the Queen's words. Sansa Stark's words."

"Sansa…?" Robin looked away, shaking his head. "She's my cousin. If she's asking for help, then we should help her."

Petyr nodded. "That was my intent as well," he turned to Lord Yohn Royce and a dozen Vale soldiers. "Gather the knights of the Vale, my lords," he ordered. "We've been sitting on the sidelines for far too long. It's time for us to join the fray."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit early, but I think it was time to move forward. Lysa Arryn is gone, but what'll likely get under Daveth Baratheon's skin in future chapters is that he won't be able to do her off after she poisoned Jon Arryn. But don't lose hope after that. There's still another power house to contend with at some point. Petyr Baelish had effectively assumed power in all but name, but Eleana still remains wary of him as do the other lords and ladies of the Vale. He thinks he's playing the Game of Thrones, but he's not exactly trustworthy material.
> 
> With the Vale now joining the fight, how do you think it'll affect Daveth's perspective? Thoughts? Let me know.


	53. Young Stag vs. Young Wolf

* * *

**On the field near Moat Cailin…**

* * *

Nearly two weeks had passed, yet the battlefield was still littered with dead bodies. Daveth Baratheon walked along the area surrounding Moat Cailin, accompanied by his Kingsguard. Looking left and right, his men were carrying the final bodies of the fallen onto the crate to be shipped off. Although recovered and well enough to walk around, Daveth had to wait another day before he could actually take part in battle.

 

"How many were lost?" he asked.

"Fifteen ironborn dead, for every one of ours. In short, we've lost close to 10,000 men," Lucius reported. "The battle to take back Moat Cailin was rather difficult for our forces south of the main entrance."

"And what of Victarion Greyjoy?"

"Our men have scoured the area from here to the Fever River, but found no sign of his body. We can only assume that he managed to get away."

_'Lord Rickard Karstark will not be pleased to hear about that,'_  thought the Young Stag. "That'll no doubt cause trouble for the Royal Fleet. How soon can we move to Seagard?"

Jaime pressed his fist to his chin. "Assuming that we can actually ensure the ironborn won't attack the same place while our backs are turned, we should be able to muster 70,000 to rendezvous with the Lannister and Redwyne Fleets. Still, I'd advise we leave a token force behind to retain Moat Cailin."

Daveth nodded. "The Northmen know every inch of the terrain better than we do. Inform Lord Gregor of House Forrester that he is to hold onto Moat Cailin with 800 men. Be sure to tell Lord Medger of House Cerwyn that he will provide an additional 400. We don't want to be caught off-guard again."

"I'll see to it that the message is delivered," Lucius nodded before taking his leave. "Should the ironborn try to attack Moat Cailin again, we won't make it easy on them."

Jaime noticed how Daveth was paying more attention to his military commanders' counsel lately, how his nephew's becoming more analytical. The field around them became steadier as the final bodies were carried off. It wouldn't be long before Robb Stark arrived; Daveth motioned for his Kingsguard to give him a moment. Jaime felt that there would be a lot for these two young men to talk about considering what they had learned moments ago. Once the Kingsguard left for a moment, Daveth and Robb stood toe-to-toe with one another.

"Should've known you'd be up and about, my friend," Robb said. "You're a hard one to kill."

"Many have tried, none succeeded," Daveth plainly remarked.

Robb turned his head towards Daveth, noticing a change in his speech pattern and how it differentiated from his normally stoic, cool demeanor. The Young Wolf could tell from the tiniest hint that something was on his brother-in-law's mind.

 

"I get the feeling there's something you want to tell me, Daveth."

Daveth shook his head. "I know what you did."

Both young men locked eyes, each sizing the other up. Yet Robb had a distinctive feeling that he somehow knew what Daveth was referring to.

"I know about Theon Greyjoy."

"This is not the time for it, Daveth—" Robb began before getting cut off.

"No, we are going to talk about it. I understand that you let Theon go, how you… permitted him to go back to the Iron Islands, to his father – the very same man who's taken up arms against us again. Do you have any idea of what you've done? What the repercussions were?"

"Theon isn't like Balon Greyjoy."

"Then you wouldn't mind explaining your actions."

The commotion was starting to garner attention, both Northmen and royalist alike. This was something they had never seen before: King Daveth I Baratheon and Lord Robb Stark, childhood friends and brothers-in-law, traded some rather tense verbal exchanges back and forth repeatedly. Robb had to unclench his knuckles, knowing that Daveth wasn't going to relent.

"You want me to tell you the truth? Fine. I did agree to let Theon go, but only on the pretense that he would procure gifts for the wedding. I did not, however, expect that this was going to happen."

The Young Stag shook his head. "You have had every opportunity to tell me the truth back at King's Landing, yet you did nothing. No, instead I had to learn about it from Lord Walder Frey on my way up here when I crossed the Trident. Among other things, like promises you made him and broke?"

"An arrangement my own mother made for me when I called my father's bannermen to lift the siege at King's Landing last year," Robb remembered. "And how is that relevant to Theon in what way?"

Daveth narrowed his eyes and pressed further. "How many promises did you go back on? One? Two? Why hide that? What else are you hiding from me? I had to clean up your mess on the way up here. I lost 10,000 men to make this possible. Did you think that was fair?"

"Daveth—"

"Theon Greyjoy was a valuable hostage, a leverage used to keep his father in line. If he were to ever try anything again, you were to do your duty and behead Theon by oath. But instead you chose to go behind my back and freed him without my knowledge or consent. And now look at what happened. Are you… are you that heedless, that fucking stupid?"

Robb was getting angry. The North was attacked, and the King was criticizing him for one simple mistake? Friend or no, Robb didn't intend to let this slide. "Look, Daveth," he said firmly. "You're angry. I get it. I am too. I know I shouldn't have done it, but I did it anyway. But getting pissed off and pointing fingers at me isn't going to help anyone at this moment. Once Theon's back in our custody, then I'll deal with it and set things right."

Daveth looked out of the corner of his right eye and saw someone familiar approaching. "Now would be as good a time as any," he pointed.

Robb turned and saw Roose Bolton's bannermen led by Locke dragging Theon Greyjoy in chains, throwing him to the mud.

"Lord Stark, Your Grace," Locke greeted. "I give you Balon Greyjoy's surviving son and heir, Theon Greyjoy."

Theon, still in chains, lifted himself up off the ground and looked at Robb and Daveth in a very long time. Resuming his stoicism, Daveth looked at Theon indifferently, showing neither hatred nor spite. Theon couldn't tell which honestly frightened him more – believing he was going to be sentenced to death anyway despite his help. Robb, on the other hand, noticed the dried blood and bruises on his face.

"You assaulted him," he realized.

Theon sighed wearily. "I've… I've had worse than this, Robb." Though he tried to lighten his 'situation', his standing was still in precarious one.

Locke wasn't pleased with the accusation from his liege lord. This is a war, after all. "We caught him close to the shore. His brethren blew up some of our ships trying to get away."

"That's not true!" Theon denied. "You guys had me chained up, bound and gagged since Winterfell!"

"Then how come some of the King's ships were caught in the explosion?"

Daveth glanced between Locke and Theon, irritatingly listening to both sides bickering back and forth like children. He felt a headache coming.

"What of my brothers? Bran and Rickon?" Robb demanded. "What did you do to them?"

Theon shook his head. "I never laid a hand on them, Robb!"

"Where are they?!"

"I sent them to the Wall, some run-down keep called Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," he confessed. "That wildling lass we took hostage two years ago, Osha, I think her name was, and that big fella Hodor's with them both."

Robb Stark felt a sense of relief, knowing Theon hadn't attempted at lying to him. But Daveth, on the other hand, wasn't done.

"Last I heard you were with Robb at Riverrun, yet not long after we've received reports that not only were you on the Iron Islands but your traitor father, Balon Greyjoy, is rebelling against us again. Care to explain yourself, Theon?"

Theon gulped. "I went to ask my father to deliver a gift for your wedding to Sansa, that's all. I tried to stop him from rebelling!"

Daveth narrowed his eyes. "Somehow, I doubt you've seriously tried hard enough. And if this was your idea of a gift, then you've failed spectacularly."

"I just—"

"I'm not interested in excuses, Greyjoy."

Robb placed a hand on Daveth's shoulder. "Daveth, stop! If he says that he tried to prevent the rebellion from beginning, then he did all he possibly could."

Theon smiled at Robb standing up for him, but Daveth still wasn't convinced and shook his head.

"You disappoint me," the Young Stag replied. "Fifteen years of friendship, our houses bound by blood, and you've throw it all away. I never thought of you as someone who'd do that."

"Daveth—!"

The Young Stag raised his hand up, silencing him. Before long he gripped the handle of Stormbringer with his left hand and unsheathed it; Theon's eyes widened at the possibility of what might come next. Locke and Ramsay Snow watched on in earnest, the bastard of House Bolton subtly showing his delight.

"Don't do it!" both Theon and Robb shouted.

Jaime, Barristan and Lucius overheard the commotion and came rushing to the scene, watching Daveth raising Stormbringer over his head with his left.

"Wait! I know how to get around my uncle Victarion Greyjoy's fleet. Spare me, and I'll share everything I know!" Theon pleaded.

Daveth continued looking down at Theon. "I know the Iron Fleet as well."

As he brought Stormbringer down, Theon closed his eyes as Robb watched on in horror. Ser Barristan and Ser Lucius were equally concerned, with Jaime standing his ground.

***CUT!***

Theon slowly opened his eyes, blinking a couple times before noticing his shackles were cut off. He took a brief moment to looked at his hands, feeling up his face and noticed Stormbringer plunged into the ground. Locke and Ramsay were both equally confused; they were honestly expecting King Daveth to behead Theon immediately, but instead cut free of his rusty shackles.

"Your Grace?" Locke exclaimed.

Daveth gripped Stormbringer with his left, fighting to suppress the impulse from consuming him again. Even so, he glanced down at Theon – staring directly into his eyes.

"Then you'd better pray to the Seven that your information is good," he gritted through his teeth. "Otherwise, your life is good for little else. Some of the men gathered here want you dead, you know."

Robb exhaled. "Your Grace, by your leave allow me to place Theon in my custody and set this right."

"No, you may not," Daveth refused. "You've lost that right the moment you released him to his father. Lord Robb Stark of Winterfell, I relieve you of the custody of Theon Greyjoy as punishment for your blunder. From this point forward, Theon is hereby placed under the crown's personal observation. His fate will be decided once his father is dealt with."

Theon felt as if he went from a bad situation into a worse one; not only was he not going to return to Robb's side, but the Young Stag would be personally keeping tabs on him. If he agreed to the terms provided, Theon thought Daveth might spare his life. Any act of duplicity would result in an automatic death sentence.

"Locke," he continued. "Once the rebellion is put down, you will be given with 1,000 acres and a holdfast of your own. You have my word."

Locke looked pleased. Not only did he deliver a valuable prisoner, but he'll also be getting a big reward from the Oathkeeper himself – only when the Second Greyjoy Rebellion was defeated.

"The rest of you, begin preparations for the journey to Seagard. From there, we will begin the full-scale invasion of the Iron Islands. Lord Bolton, you shall be given command of the vanguard. I'll catch up with you soon."

Roose nodded in acknowledgment. "Understood, Your Grace," he said calmly.

"Ser Jaime, get something to hold Theon. No one gets access to him."

As Jaime hoisted Theon off the ground and led him away while the Lord of the Dreadfort moved to mobilize his army, gathering his men to begin the long trek south once more. As they began the march, Robb glanced at Daveth – who did not even look at him.

"I can't believe you just did that, Daveth," Robb shook his head. "I thought our friendship meant something to you."

"Keeping secrets in times of wartime breeds suspicion and distrust in the ranks. You've not only done the Freys a grievous insult, but you spat in my face as well," Daveth finally turned to face his brother-in-law. "Our friendship did mean something to me, but apparently it didn't to you. If I weren't married to your sister, I would've beaten the living shit out of you."

Before Robb could even protest, Daveth cut him off again.

"'All men should keep their word, Kings most of all.' Those were the words you said to me a year ago after the Battle of Blackwater Bay, remember? I've kept my word, aid or threat, yet you couldn't do the same. Olyvar was meant to be your squire, not mine. You agreed to marry Roslin, yet you chose another. Now your uncle Edmure and I had to take your place and pick up the pieces. You knew I would've never allowed you to let Theon go free, yet you did it anyway."

Robb shook his head. "I haven't forgotten. I know what I did was wrong. I know I screwed up! Is that what you want to hear from me? I never meant to slight you or Lord Walder, Daveth. Once this is done, I will make amends—"

"Amends for sneaking around behind my back? You kept all of it hidden from me for a lengthy period of time! How am I expected to believe anything you say at this point?"

"Then what do you want me to say?!" Robb sounded cross, perhaps incredulous. "What do I have to do to prove myself? How many times do I have to apologize to you for?"

Daveth frowned. "There's nothing you can say or do to make this go away. The damage's been done already. You want my forgiveness? You want me to start trusting you again? Then go. Go to Seagard and back up my ships before we invade the Iron Islands."

Leaving in a huff, Robb Stark mounted his stallion. Grey Wind followed suit, heading south with his master and the rest of the Stark bannermen. Daveth turned away as he returned to his war tent, mostly to relax and settle his nerves down. Of all the people in Westeros, Robb Stark was the last person to ever do such a thing to him. He had more to say, but bit his tongue before he went too far and made it worse than it already is… though, he couldn't exactly say for certain. Only time will tell once Balon Greyjoy's rebellion was dealt with. No doubt he'd imagine what his wife Sansa would be saying if she saw them arguing the way they did, but Daveth shook it from his thoughts.

"I can be harsh, I know, Robb. But it's for your own good in the long run," he sighed to his reflection. The Young Stag took a moment to examine his right shoulder, any slight of discomfort and he would've felt it already. But he hadn't. With luck, Daveth could rejoin his men sooner.

Olyvar Frey soon returned to the tent. "Your Grace," he spoke up.

"I take it you heard everything?" Daveth remarked.

"I did. I know Robb Stark wronged my father, done House Frey a huge insult. Despite everything, I… know he was like a brother to you. I'm sorry for everything that's happened."

"Do not apologize, lad," he dismissed. "Have you wronged me? No, you did not. Sometimes we say and do things we don't mean, good intentions or no. In times of war, there can't be any room for coddling."

"You've been to war before, Your Grace?" Olyvar asked.

Daveth nodded. "A year ago, my own uncle Renly Baratheon rebelled against me. Called himself King and laid claim to the Iron Throne, even though he himself knew he was fifth in line. The Reach declared for him until it became clear they were backing the losing side, despite the greater numbers."

"Was it difficult? Having to kill one of your own flesh and blood?"

"Some things are best left unsaid. Do I regret putting him down? No. Do I know why he did what he did? No. It's… not so simple when the enemy you're fighting is your own family."

"Were you two close?"

"Depends on how you define the word 'close,' but to answer your question… no. No, Olyvar, we were not. We Baratheons are a rather stubborn, complicated bunch; headstrong and steadfast in pursuing our goals. The stag is the sigil of our house. If neither one of us backs down, we tend to butt heads and clash antlers until one of us is left standing. Renly never trusted me or believed anything I said."

Olyvar tilted his head. "Why?"

"He somehow got an idea in his head that because I'm half Lannister through the female line, I'd act like one despite my Baratheon name. 'A Baratheon's strength and a Lannister's cunning is a rather dangerous combination,' is what he told me once."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him 'Ours is the Fury', the words of our house. That has meaning."

"And that is…?"

"It signifies the infamous Baratheon rage, making us unpredictable and dangerous but is the source of our superhuman strength and power. On the downside, it's what makes us hot-headed and quick-tempered," Daveth sat down, motioning Olyvar to take a seat as well. "That's right. You've never been outside the Riverlands before, haven't you?"

"Not really, Your Grace," Olyvar shook his head. "Didn't expect that I'd see an actually war up close."

"Well, at least you didn't break the one rule."

"Rule? What rule?"

"Don't get killed on the first day."

Olyvar chuckled as Daveth poured them both a glass of wine, each sharing a cup whilst the royal forces stood by readying themselves for tomorrow's march south to Seagard.

"Regardless," he continued, "you did well for a squire. Didn't necessarily have any time to begin your training, but still you did well. Once we return to King's Landing, I will teach you how to fight properly."

Olyvar swore he shuddered and scrunched his face so slightly. "To be honest, I never thought it'd smell like that."

"Ehh, that's why the minstrels leave that part out of the songs. Men always shit themselves before they die. You'll learn to get used to it. Go get some rest, Olyvar. We leave for Seagard first thing in the morning."

Olyvar nodded and put his cup down and left the tent, leaving Daveth alone. Once he lay back on his bed, watching the sun set in the distance, glistening the distant waters, Daveth stared blankly up at the guy line fabric. If the battle to retake Moat Cailin was tough, then expect tomorrow to be an even tougher one. Because he knew the ironborn would be in their strongest element: the open waters. The ironborn were fierce warriors, so long as they were at sea. But on water, that's another story. Daveth only needed to wait one more day to get his strength back.

He will need every ounce of it, though hopefully there wouldn't be any division in his ranks during his absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that could've gone better. Quite a bitter falling out; never thought that Daveth and Robb would be at each other's throats, considering. A token force will remain in Moat Cailin to hold it while half of the joint forces will ride for Seagard and join the naval battle. The remaining soldiers with Daveth will rendezvous with them in the following morning. Besides that, how do you think the relations between the childhood friends/brothers-in-law will affect both House Stark and House Baratheon? Or how do you suspect Theon will be treated since he's under new supervision? Thoughts? Let me know.


	54. It's Begun

* * *

**Off the coast of Seagard…**

* * *

The Northmen had long arrived at the castle of Seagard in the Riverlands. The seat of House Mallister, a vassal house holding fealty to House Tully of Riverrun, Seagard was not only the largest and only port on the west coast of the Riverlands, but it also maintained a small fleet of half a dozen war longships and two war galleys under the command of their liege lord Lord Jason Mallister. Regarded as one of the most stalwart, reliable and honorable of the river lords, Jason was responsible for leading the victorious defense of Seagard against an attack by the ironborn forces led by Balon Greyjoy's eldest son Rodrik Greyjoy and killed him personally. The Lord of Seagard personally welcomed the northern forces and made the preparations for the inevitable invasion of the Iron Islands itself, reinforcing the combined Royal Fleet, Lannister Fleet and Redwyne Fleet with a fraction of his own vessels. A small fraction of the Redwyne and Lannister fleet picked up the Northmen and set sail immediately afterwards, with only a few Seagard vessels remaining behind to defend the shores from any aggressors.

Onboard the vessel  _Wolfsbane_ , Robb Stark sat in his quarters with his great-uncle Ser Brynden Tully and his wife Talisa. He was still troubled about Daveth's outburst at him back at Moat Cailin – listening to his childhood friend/brother-in-law chastise him upon the Young Stag learning of his two political blunders. It still baffled Robb how Daveth switched from being calm and patient to cold and ruthless. He must've suspected that's the Lannister in him talking then. Or was it the Baratheon? He shook his head, staying focused on the inevitable naval battle.

"You looked troubled," Brynden said. "Still bothered about what the King said to you?"

Robb sighed. "I've never seen Daveth act like that before. Yes, I made a mistake but was it really necessary to lash out at me like that in front of my own men?"

"Pay no mind to that, I'd say. His father King Robert was like that for many years, even while leading the rebellion against the Mad King. Nowadays it's Daveth's turn to vent a bit now and then. Whatever he said to you back at Moat Cailin, you know deep down he didn't mean it. You're like a brother to him, the only true friend he's got left in this miserable world. He'll be back to his old self in no time once this is done."

"Saying he'd 'beat the shit out of me' if he wasn't married to Sansa was one way of putting it."

The Blackfish shook his head and placed a hand on his great-nephew's shoulder. "You two are each like your fathers. Ned was honorable, kind and well-loved by all the North. Robert was headstrong, strong and a charismatic man who turned enemies into friends."

"Such a high praise, uncle," replied Robb.

Brynden laughed. "That wasn't meant as a compliment," he explained. "You see, Robb, being a ruler means not everyone has to be an honorable, shining knight from those blasted songs and stories. Being a King means there's a lot of heavy burdens and responsibilities that comes with it, sometimes you have to make… hard decisions that are sometimes considered harsh, cruel or even dishonorable. That's how it is in the south. And Daveth carries with him the fate of all Seven Kingdoms on his shoulders every day. Maybe he intended to be hard on you just to keep you alive."

The Young Wolf shook his head. "If so, then he has on odd way with words."

"Nothing's ever easy in times of war; something I learned at your age during the War of the Ninepenny Kings," the Blackfish admitted. "Judging the actions and behavior of your royal brother-in-law, the decision he makes are tough but also fair. Can't be too lenient, but can't be too strict either. Having a rigid sense of honor works doesn't work so well if you were born in the center of it all."

Robb wasn't sure if he'd ever understand it, not fully. "I'll need to think about it some more. Not sure if I'll ever understand the southern court."

"Neither do I. I might not now him that well, but Daveth may end up surprising you at some point." With that, Brynden Tully left the room – leaving Robb and Talisa alone.

Robb was left to ponder his great-uncle's words, whilst rubbing his temples. He took a brief moment to look back at his wife Talisa, who was busy writing a letter.

"Who are you writing?" he asked curiously.

"My mother."

Robb looked over Talisa's shoulder to examine the letter, but he couldn't understand the dialect or even the language of what it was she was writing.

"Is that Valyrian?"

"Gaaa (Say hello for me)," she answers.

"'Gaaa'?"

"Rytsas (Hello)."

"Ritsas," Robb tried to repeat.

Talisa rolled her eyes and smiled. "That was close enough," she laughed.

The Young Wolf scratched the back of his head, apparently knowing he still has much to learn about foreign languages. It wasn't necessarily his strong suit, but considering his wife Talisa was from Volantis she'd be able to teach him how to understand High Valyrian and Low Valyrian in no time at all.

"Does your mother know her daughter's a Westerosi highborn lady?" he asked.

"Not yet, no," she shook her head cryptically. "I'm sure there will be many surprises for her. Will you come with me to Volantis one day? When all this is over?"

Robb nodded. "I will. I promise."

"I know she'd love to meet you… and her grandchild."

Robb sat there for a moment in his cabin, pondering until…  _'Wait, what?'_  he thought. The Lord of Winterfell blinked several times as Talisa's words were slowly starting to sink in. Once he fully processed Talisa's words, Robb gave a small laugh, turning his head towards her as he stood up.

"What now?" he asked speechlessly. "Are you… are you certain?"

Talisa decided to put the ink and quill down onto the small desk in their small, private cabin. "Are you angry with me?" she asked.

"Angry?" Robb walked towards Talisa, kneeling down so they were at eye-level. He gently cupped her cheek with his hand, reassuring her. "You are my darling wife."

Embracing the hand on her cheek, Talisa smiled. "And I have your heir inside me, my lord, a son or daughter."

"Maybe one of each?"

"Don't get greedy," Talisa laughed causing Robb to join in. She kissed his hand. "I know it's not much considering, but could you leave the war at sea for just one night?"

"I love you," the Young Wolf proclaimed. "Do you hear me? I love you."

As Robb kissed Talisa, he lifted her up off the chair and brought her to the bed. While they were busy undressing each other, eager to recreate the act of procreation they had begun months ago. For only a brief moment, Robb Stark and his wife Talisa had forgotten about the horrors of war just for the sake of losing themselves in each other's company.

* * *

**Somewhere in the Sunset Sea…**

* * *

Waves crashed against the tens of war galleys and longships. Among the vessels sailing through the water, a fully-recovered King Daveth I Baratheon stood with his arms crossed on the deck of  _King Robert's Hammer_ , flagship of the Royal Fleet and its largest naval war vessel. He stared into the distant oceans through fog and mist. Among the crew, only a dozen battle-hardened veterans and experienced soldiers handpicked by the Young Stag himself maintained their balance, whilst a few newcomers had either shaky legs or were vomiting over the side due to sea sickness. The rest were stationed on other ships such as  _Lionstar_ , _Lady Lyanna_ ,  _Bold Wind_ , and the  _Seaswift_.

Accompanying him was the Master of Ships, Lord Randyll Tarly. The Lord of Hornhill stood alongside Daveth in examining the vast open ocean readying themselves for battle. At their current pace, with the wind pushing their sails they should be able to make it to the Iron Islands in three days' time.

 

"Never thought I'd find myself heading back to the Iron Islands after such a long time," Daveth mentioned.

Randyll noticed. "There are no easy choices in war, Your Grace. You'd best steel yourself in the long run, considering who we're up against. Based on the information your… 'guest' has provided, the ironborn will most certainly have the advantage."

"I know. The ironborn are fierce warriors and unparalleled combatants so long as they're at sea. They will no doubt hold a strategic advantage over us, but in the end the ironborn are… predictable. They're not soldiers. They severely lack discipline and strategy."

"And that gives us the tactical advantage," the Lord of Hornhill pointed out. "The granaries harvested from the Reach for our troops have been stowed away aboard the  _Seaswift_ , each has been distributed among the ships. The  _Bold Wind_  and  _Lionstar_  will reinforce our supply lines should we face an immediate attack. We're only a small token force, considering the rest will no doubt come into direct contact with the bulk of the Iron Fleet."

"A momentary distraction while we strike from behind or exposed flanks, catching the Iron Fleet by surprise…" Daveth mused closely. "What of the modifications made to our ships? Will they be as effective?"

"With the recent installments to each of our ships, the fleet should be able to both inflict significant damage without sacrificing speed or mobility. Ironborn ships are strong in the front, but weak in the middle. Once we encircle them, we should be able to expose their vulnerable points and attack them there hard."

"Hmmm. And what sort of strategy do you suggest we employ should we overextend our lines, Lord Tarly?"

"Should it ever occur, then I would advise you to get some of the sturdiest of these vessels behind us to move further ahead of the Sunset Sea until they've reached a certain distance. If the head of the line is ambushed, for instance, then the tail will never be able to reinforce it in time."

"I see."

"With your permission, Your Grace, flogging lazy or incompetent oarsmen has a marked effect on mobility; works just as well with infantry."

_'A bit extreme, considering some of these men have been fighting since Moat Cailin or even Deepwood Motte… but at the same time, we can't afford to have anything or anyone slowing us down as it might complicate our formation,'_  Daveth contemplated. "Permission granted," he sighed reluctantly.

Randyll nodded his head, yet remained silent. To nearly all, he was a fearsomely intimidating man yet one of the finest generals in the Seven Kingdoms. He was a military man, strict with his subordinates. Daveth understood why Randyll had to be strict, yet there needed to be a sense of balance; can't be too lenient or too strict either. It was a rather difficult line to walk on – but Daveth was determined to see it through. It wouldn't be long before a young lad of seventeen years of age approached the two.

"All the other captains have been given their orders, father," he reported.

Randyll nodded. "Very good," he said before turning to Daveth. "Your Grace, I believe you know my son."

"Your Grace."

Daveth eyed the young Tarly up and down. "You must be Dickon Tarly, are you not?"

"I am, Your Grace," Dickon nodded.

"You have that look about you, the makings of a soldier. Lord Randyll speaks highly of you, Dickon. Your father is a fine soldier, one of the best generals this country has ever seen. He defeated my father during the Battle of Ashford twenty years ago. My uncle Lord Stannis told me it was the only battle father ever lost. Can you deliver on the battlefield when the time comes?"

"My son is athletic, a skilled hunter and an excellent swordsman," Randyll vouched for his second son. "And a worthy successor to inherit my lands and our family's ancestral sword Heartsbane when I'm gone, Your Grace. He will deliver."

Daveth returned his gaze to the ocean. "Hmmm. We shall see, Lord Tarly. In due time, we shall see. Lord Tarly."

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"You and the other captains, Ser Kevan Lannister, Ser Lucius Blackmyre, Ser Jaime Lannister and Ser Harys Swyft remember the instructions I gave you?"

"We have."

Daveth glanced over his shoulder. "Show our enemies what happens when they go too far. When we make landfall, every ironborn is to be put to the sword. Tear down their castles. Destroy the Iron Islands."

* * *

**At Pyke…**

* * *

It is a dark and stormy night. King Balon Greyjoy was absolutely livid, yet fiercely stubborn. Not only did he receive word that both Deepwood Motte  _and_  Moat Cailin were liberated by the mainlanders, but the full might of Westeros would soon be brought down on the Iron Islands once more – only harder and stronger than the last. In the Great Hall, Balon stood at the fireplace with his back to Yara.

 

"You disappointed me, Yara. You failed me," he chastised his daughter. "I tasked you with seizing the lands, taking the strongholds. Yet you couldn't hold a single one."

Yara felt increasingly agitated. "The Glovers had 4,000 men while I had only 200!"

"And the ironborn under your command? Were they not tasked with holding Deepwood Motte whatever the cost?"

"Almost all of them died fighting to a man."

"What is dead may never die," Balon proclaimed proudly.

"What is dead may never die," Yara repeated, turning to place a piece of paper she was reading from on a table. "But my men did. Our invasion died when we lost Deepwood Motte and Moat Cailin. My uncle Victarion will be mounting a strong defense of the Iron Islands, but that'll only slow our enemies down not stop them."

Balon shook his head. "Then we will take more strongholds on the mainland," he insisted.

Yara couldn't believe her ears. She wanted to yell and scream at her father, feeling that deep down Theon had been right despite their father choosing to ignore his warnings; yet even so she couldn't help but suspect that her only living brother had defected to the other side – possibly seeking asylum in exchange for protection.

"Why?" she pressed. "What for? For more pinecones and rocks and more bodies of our fallen?"

"Because  _I_  order it, because  _I_  demand it."

"If the Young Stag and Young Wolf land their troops here, then their numbers will be much larger than Robert Baratheon's ever was! My own uncle Victarion is out there right now staging a final stand in an attempt to keep them at bay! We can defeat anyone at sea, father, but we'll never hold lands and castles against mainland armies."

"Not if our captains defy my orders, give up the lands  _I_  have taken, abandon the strongholds  _I_  have seized, and sacrifice our men on a foolish attempt to save their own skins," the Kraken King glared at her.

Yara stood her ground. "I won't apologize for doing what needs to be done. I'm not sacrificing  _my men_  on a desperate suicide mission."

"Yet your own brother Theon is no longer with us. Where is he now?"

"Where is your kingdom?!" she argued, finally losing her patience. "We took those castles because the northerners were away. This war is over! The last time we provoked them too far, I watched from that window as they breached our walls and knocked down our towers! I lost two of my brothers that day, Rodrik and Maron, and I can never get them back!"

"And I lost three sons!" the Lord Reaper of Pyke shouted back. "The Second Greyjoy Rebellion, they call it. Well, the Young Stag will have to be reminded what happens when you face a kraken in its element. When you rule the Iron Islands, Yara, you can wage all the peace you want," he said before getting in her face. "But for now, shut your mouth and obey or I will make another heir who will. Get back to your ship and rendezvous with the rest of the fleet."

Balon exited the hall before Yara could even respond. Fed up with her father's arrogance, Yara stormed out to gather what was left of her forces to the  _Black Wind_  and join up with Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy's armada led by the  _Iron Victory_.

_'Drowned God be damned!'_  she thought bitterly.  _'Suicide or no, I'm going to find my little brother and I'm going to bring him home!'_

As the rains poured and the waves battered the Iron Islands, Yara climbed aboard the  _Black Wind_  with her crew and set sail to the open waters. Each of her men set their spitfires and scorpion bolts into place, getting themselves ready for what seemed to be an intense naval warfare against the approaching mainlanders. Yara no longer cared about reaving or pillaging along the western coasts; her only concern was the safety of her crew, the survival of her people… and the life of her only surviving sibling. She'll stage a daring rescue attempt or die trying.

* * *

**Off the coast of Pyke…**

* * *

Some distant miles away from the Iron Islands, the  _Iron Victory_  was joined on all sides by the Iron Fleet. On deck stood Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy, having survived his tumble down the hillside during the brutal siege at Moat Cailin against Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark. He gripped his battleaxe with both hands, though his left still bothered him slightly as it has recently become infected. Rain poured and thunder boomed across the skies above, yet the ironborn maintained perfect balance as the waves shook their ships. Despite limited visibility, Victarion had his men on stand-by ready to fiercely defend the Iron Islands from the mainland invaders seeking to destroy them.

"Won't be long now," he suggested. "We'll give the greenlanders a fight they will never forget."

"There's glory enough for us to go around," Ralf Stonehouse proclaimed. "Their numbers won't make a difference if they can't get past us, Lord Captain. We have the seas, they don't. We have the key advantage: our prowess at sea is unrivaled. What is dead may never die."

"What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. Get the captains and their crews into position."

"At once!"

As Red Ralf left to return to his vessel  _Red Jester_ , Victarion stared out into the distance. In the fog and mist, he narrowed his eyes and spotted several ships led by the  _Fury_.

_'Stannis Baratheon,'_  Victarion gritted his teeth. "To arms, men! Get the ships moving to intercept! Here they come!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the royalists and northern armies are now en route to invade the Iron Islands and the conclusion marks the beginning of the first naval encounter between Victarion Grejoy and Stannis Baratheon. He knows Stannis all too well and remembers the humiliation at Fair Isle. With Robb and Daveth moving to reinforce them, what do you think will happen next? The next two or three chapters will include some naval battles on the Sunset Sea before the invasion of the Iron Island formally begins. By calculating the Royal Fleet's est. 290 ships with the Redwyne Fleet's 200, the Lannister Fleet's 20-30 (according to George R.R. Martin) and three of House Mallister's, the royalists have the largest naval force in Westeros with a combined 523 warships compared to the Iron Fleet's 200 (under Balon's command). Thoughts? Let me know.


	55. Battle at the Sunset Sea (Part 1)

* * *

**Aboard the _Fury_ …**

* * *

Aboard the  _Fury_ , with its red sails shimmering golden as they came down bearing the sigil of the Baratheon crowned stag blazoned on its canvas, Lord Stannis Baratheon readied himself for naval warfare once again. Unclasping the black cloak around his shoulders, he unsheathed his longsword from its sheath as the main bulk of the Royal Fleet and Redwynne Fleet sailed through the fog and mist until the remaining Iron Fleet finally came into view. The Battle of the Sunset Sea was about to begin at a moment's notice. Glancing briefly to his left, Stannis spotted the war galley  _Wolfsbane_.

_'So the Young Wolf and his men finally arrived. Took them long enough,'_  he thought.

His first mate and brother-in-law, Ser Imry Florent, came onto the deck with Ser Davos Seaworth along with his son Matthos.

"The men are in position, my lord," Imry reported.

"All the necessary arrangements have been made," Davos reported. "The King is already on his way here as we speak."

Stannis remained stone-faced. "With any luck he should be able to use the cover of fog to his advantage and conceal his movements until the opportune moment presents itself."

"Still…" Imry slightly fidgeted. "The ironborn will have the advantage. They know the seas better than we do. Hundreds will die."

"Thousands," Stannis corrected. "Ser Davos, give the order."

Davos nodded and turned to the assembled Dragonstone archers on the side of the ship. He knew the  _Fury_  as well as he knew his own ships. Above its 300 oars was a deck given over wholly to scorpions, and topside she mounted catapults fore and aft, large enough to fling barrels of burning pitch. A most formidable ship, and very swift as well, although Ser Imry had packed her bow to stern with armored knights and men-at-arms, at some cost to her speed. The other ships hosted nearly 20,000 knights, light horse and mercenaries, the unwilling legacy from Renly Baratheon to his brother Stannis. The warhorns sounded, commands drifting back from the  _Fury_.

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

Davos felt a tingle in his missing fingertips. "Out oars," he shouted. "Form line."

A hundred blades dipped down into the water as the oarmaster's drum began to boom. The sound was like the beating of a great slow heart, and the oars moved at every stroke, a hundred men pulling as one.

"Archers, stand to! Man the below! Nock."

"Nock and set!"

Scorpion bolts were inserted as the archers drew their arrows, planting them atop their bows.

"Draw!"

Before Davos could carry out the order, he looked on in surprise as the Iron Fleet suddenly withdrew into the fog. He glanced into the distance, trying to figure out where the enemy had gone. But he couldn't see a damned thing in this blasted fog!

"Hold," he commanded.

"Hold."

Davos moved from one side of the  _Fury_  hoping to get a better angle. Matthos moved to the starboard to get a closer look as well. After another pointless effort, the Onion Knight seemed close to nearly giving up until he saw a bright orange light coming from across the sky. As it got closer, it got brighter until it was revealed to be ablaze with fire. Judging the trajectory of where the fireball was going, Davos knew where it would hit. It was at this moment when he saw that, Davos Seaworth's heart stopped beating.

"Oh no…" he realized staring wide-eyed before swiftly turning to the starboard deck. "Matthos! Get down!" he shouted.

***BAM!***

***BOOM!***

Before Matthos could respond, the fireball came crashing down – scattering those unfortunate enough to be close to the starboard deck. The  _Fury_  was under heavy fire, along with the other assembled fleets. Stannis himself was taken aback for a brief moment as he noticed the Iron Fleet coming into view from two angles. The Redwyne Fleet momentarily broke away to intercept one side, its crewmen moving quickly to return fire as more rained down upon them.

"Return fire!" Stannis ordered.

Before the crew of the  _Fury_  could return fire, one ironborn warship – the  _Iron Victory_  – suddenly rammed the war galley. A couple Dragonstone soldiers were thrown backwards upon impact, while Stannis slightly stumbled before quickly regaining his balance. He realized at this point that he'd been lured into a trap. When he looked upwards, the  _Iron Victory_ 's corvus came crashing down and locking onto the  _Fury_ , with Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy bellowing orders to his boarding party.

"Board their ships! Ensnare the stags and wolves!" Victarion shouted. "Drown them all beneath the waves!"

Stannis pointed his sword towards the ironborn commander. "Men, come with me and teach our enemies a lesson!"

The Dragonstone soldiers readied themselves and charged forth. Swords clashed, yet the ferocious ironborn were taking down their fair share of adversaries. Memory served the fiery stag of Dragonstone well; the ironborn held the strategic advantage at sea. Stannis continued cutting down one ironborn raider after another before they got too close to him, but even he knew there were limits. Victarion, meanwhile, cleaved the crew of the  _Fury_  with his battleaxe left and right.

"How unfortunate. They're not even worthy as offerings to the Drowned God."

***CLASH!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

"More pressure!"

Ser Davos Seaworth, having recovered from being tossed backwards from the ironborn's spitfire impact, groggily stood back to his feet – noticing an ironborn raider charging directly at him before being saved by Ser Imry. The Onion Knight looked over and saw the lifeless body of his son unresponsive. He felt tears beginning to pour down his cheeks, cradling Matthos's corpse close to him. It was not something Davos did not want to happen to him, to his family… especially to his son. He did not accept a knighthood and a spot of land on Cape Wrath only to watch one of his children die in front of him.

"Forgive me, Matthos," his voice cracked. "Oh Gods, please forgive me…"

Davos's grief slowly dissipated as he looked up to see Stannis Baratheon exchanging blows with Victarion Greyjoy. The loss of his son was almost too much for the Onion Knight to bear; fueled by grief, Davos uncharacteristically reached for the nearest longsword, gripping it tightly in one hand and charged at Victarion. Taking advantage of the momentary distraction, Davos was only able to put a slight dent in Vicatrion's armor, but it wasn't enough for him to actually feel anything.

Turning his head slightly, Victarion Greyjoy kicked Stannis away before seizing Davos by the throat. "A poor decision on your part to tangle with the kraken," he said unamused. "Now off with you!"

Victarion swung and threw Davos overboard, sending him into the watery depths below before returning his attention to Stannis Baratheon. He had just enough time to notice  _Wolfsbane_  ramming into the  _Iron Victory_ , barely making a dent and unable to knock the corvus loose. Try as it might, the boarding bridge remained firmly gripped onto the  _Fury_. The Northmen and river lords tried jumping onto the multiple ships that were rammed by the Iron Fleet, yet met surprisingly heavy resistance as each side were taken down by the ironborn raiders.

Several of the combined forces had wobbly legs whilst the ironborn remained firm and steady, undetermined by the oceanic waves. Robb Stark leapt aboard the  _Fury_  with Grey Wind and Torrhen Karstark, his sights set on Victarion Greyjoy.

"You again," Robb remembered.

Torrhen unsheathed his sword. "You killed my brother, you bastard!" he spat.

Victarion grinned. "Aye, your brother was a bleeder… until I split his head in two."

In a fit of rage, Torrhen Karstark ran towards his foe.

"Torrhen, don't! Get back here!" shouted Robb.

Stannis noticed as well. "Stay where you are!"

Torrhen didn't listen. In his desire to avenge the death of his elder brother Harrion, Torrhen swung his sword, but Victarion easily dodged and wrapped the handle of his axe around Torrhen's throat – pulling him pack hardly until the second-born Karstark's back pressed against Victarion's breastplate. Being strangled, Torrhen struggled with the handle, wrapping his fingers around the weapon as he tried to free himself.

"Let him go!" Robb shouted, charging to free Torrhen Karstark – but slipped as another wave came crashing against the ships. Grey Wind, not used to fighting in such conditions, lost his balance and stumbled to the deck as well.

Victarion felt a moment of triumph; not only were Stannis and Robb unable to reach him, but he felt his chance for vengeance getting nearer. His humiliating defeat by Stannis Baratheon at the Battle of Fair Isle, and again against Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark at the Siege of Moat Cailin… the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet felt his chance coming closer. His infected left hand still bothered him, allowing Torrhen to briefly lift the ironborn's axe handle off his throat for a moment before it was quickly clamped down on his windpipe again.

Regaining his balance, Robb Stark moved to save Torrhen – only to be kicked back by Victarion, and more of his ironborn raiders swarmed the vessel in large numbers by using chains and grappling hooks from the deck of the  _Iron Victory_. Grey Wind, albeit stumbling managed to grip his paws and claws onto the wooden deck and lunged – bearing his teeth, the direwolf took down his fair share of ironborn raiders as Robb Stark regained his balance and was able to fight back.

"*Ack! Ack, ack!*" Torrhen struggled in the grasp of his enemy.

"Take a good look, boy," Victarion whispered in his ear. " _This_  is the might of the kraken. You mainlanders got the jump on us last time, but… you're in  _my_  elements now. Now… die."

***SNAP!***

Lifting his axe up sharply, Victarion snaps the neck of Torrhen Karstark – his arms going limp. With his foolish adversary quickly eliminated, Victarion threw Torrhen's corpse overboard and into the oceans below.

***SPLASH!***

"Torrhen!" Robb shouted.

Stannis sneered. "Foolish boy…"

Victarion brandished his battleaxe in hand, eager for more blood. "Another tribute to the Drowned God. Now, come! If you have what it takes to kill me!" he roared.

Stannis Baratheon engaged in martial prowess with Victarion Greyjoy, with Robb Stark and Grey Wind joining the fray. The triple-team attack was underway, but Victarion was already familiar with the strategy and wouldn't allow himself to be taken off-guard again – not like last time.

***CLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***CLANG!***

***SWING!***

Steel clashed against steel, each man moved in different directions than the other – neither of them managing to land a brutal blow on the other. More ships from the Redwyne Fleet moved in, ramming the Iron Fleet chained to their allies. A few ships were shaken, though some were knocked loose which did allow some of the Royal Fleet to push themselves free, allowing their oars to slide down into the water. Fifteen grappling lines were cut, though that did not stop the ironborn from quickly replacing them. They swung from one ship to the other, making life a living hell for the combined forces. Trebuchets from both fleets launched fireballs at each other, setting both of Stannis's and Victarion's fleet afire. Scorpions launched bolts at the Iron Fleet, piercing the center of the ironborn ships. A few started sinking, whereas others remained floating or sustaining damage. The Redwyne Fleet managed to encircle a few enemy longships, ramming them in the center before being blindsided by enemy war galleys under cover of fog.

Stannis Baratheon swung, narrowly missing Victarion but parried dozens of interferers and manages to slice the head off of one of them cleanly in half. Robb, meanwhile, pressed the attack again and again, but Victarion deflected every time before head-butting the Young Wolf. As he stumbled backwards, Victarion swung up and brought the axe downwards; but although Robb brought his sword up to parry, the impact force knocked him down.

"Gah!" he exclaimed as he was smacked to the deck.

Victarion stood over Robb, clenching Grey Wind by his fur and throwing the direwolf backwards.

"Having a little trouble aren't we, Young Wolf?" he mocked. "Where's your friend? Not here to help you now, I see. You should've stayed in your little frozen wasteland you call home rather than enter the kraken's lair unprepared."

Robb stood back up. "The crimes you and your brother committed against my people, against the North shan't go unpunished, Greyjoy. You won't get away with this. This I swear by the Old Gods and the New."

"There is only one God that matters here, boy. The Drowned God! And now you will face his fury!"

Robb attacked Victarion, reinforced by Stannis and Grey Wind. As more Iron Fleet vessels pummeled the joint royal-northern fleets with fireballs and ramming, several ships started sinking beneath the waves. Ser Davos Seaworth, having popped back up to the surface after being thrown overboard, clung onto the  _Fury_ 's lifeline rope. Climbing up, Davos looked over the edge to see Victarion giving Stannis and Robb trouble as more ironborn raiders boarded the Royal, Lannister and Redwyne Fleets. The stormy waves crashing against the ships were making things a bit difficult, which played to the ironborn's advantage. The Sunset Sea had turned into the mouth of hell.

"To Lord Stannis, go now!" shouted Ser Imry.

"First and second squads, to Lord Stannis!"

"To Lord Stannis!"

Ser Imry Florent and dozens of his guardsmen rendezvous to Stannis, taking the opportunity to surround Victarion Greyjoy on all sides. Unfortunately, as several men moved to attack, Victarion swung his axe around and cleaved all attackers. Robb attempted to initiate the same battlefield tactic he and Daveth used at the battle to retake Moat Cailin, moving to the left and going low to hit the ringmails behind Victarion's legs; however, Victarion was already aware of the plan and sidestepped and kneed Robb in the gut before backhanding Grey Wind hard as the direwolf moved to help its master. Stannis parried with dozens of ironborn raiders, forcing their swords down before swiftly bringing his blade upwards. Even at age 47, Stannis was still a capable warrior and seasoned commander. Fueled by the Baratheon aggressiveness, Stannis moved just as quickly.

***SLASH!***

Cleaving another ironborn's head in half, Stannis noticed Robb Stark and his direwolf having incredible trouble against the larger Greyjoy commander.

"Stand and fight!" Stannis hollered at his men. "Stand and fight, damn you!"

The Dragonstone soldiers desperately fought to keep Victarion at bay, but the Lord Captain simply swept them all aside, drenching their blood on his axe. More Northmen boarded the ships. Galbart Glover, Greatjon Umber, Roose Bolton, Rickard Karstark, Rodrik Cassel, Maege Mormont, Brynden Tully and many others joined the fray.

"Time to face justice, Greyjoy!" Greatjon bellowed.

"You'll pay for both my sons' murder!" Rickard threatened.

Victarion glanced at each of the assembled Northmen and river lords as Robb Stark got back to his feet, with Grey Wind at his side. As the direwolf snarled, Victarion stood his ground.

"It's over, Victarion," Robb pointed his sword at him.

"I don't care how many of you there are!" he shouted in defiance. "Whatever the kraken grasps it does not lose, be it longship or leviathan! What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger!"

More and more Iron Fleet longships battered and rammed the royal-northern fleets, though they had started to fight back and stood strong despite being at a disadvantage. As the Northmen and Victarion readied themselves for a fight to the death, a loud horn could be heard through the thick, heavy fog.

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

Robb looked left and right before turning to see the remaining naval warships arriving into view from directly behind the Iron Fleet. Among the ships, the  _King Robert's Hammer_  emerged from the dense weather. Being the largest war galley in the Royal Fleet,  _King Robert's Hammer_ stood out as it and the several other ships accompanying it— _Bold Wind_ ,  _Lionstar_ ,  _Lady Lyanna_  and the  _Seaswift_ —hurled their own fireballs directed at the Iron Fleet.

***BAM!***

***BOOM!***

One by one, the Iron Fleet was getting bombarded from behind as the Redywne, Lannister and main bulk of the Royal Fleet launched their counterattack. Aboard the  _King Robert's Hammer_ , King Daveth Baratheon unsheathed his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer from its sheath and directed it at the Iron Fleet itself.

"The ironborn ships are strong in the front, but they are weak in the middle!" Daveth shouted. "Oarsmen, full speed ahead! Show these bastards what we're made of! The rest of you, provide covering fire for our allies! Don't let up!"

Sailing at full speed and with the support of the wind, the might of  _King Robert's Hammer_  rammed the  _Iron Victory_  with the newly-upgraded warship rams on its hull, breaking their hulls and pinning them in a naval double envelopment.

_'Another pincer attack!'_  Victarion realized, snarling as he grit his teeth in rage and frustration. What started off as a successful ambush ultimately led to the Lord Captain getting trapped on both sides again.

"Spears and shields! Spears and shields!" Daveth shouted as he and his men jumped from  _King Robert's Hammer_  and onto the  _Fury_ , ready to engage Victarion Greyjoy in battle again.

"Get in line now!" shouted Olyvar, having mustered enough courage and experience to actually start giving orders (albeit to minor infantrymen).

Lord Randyll Tarly and his son Dickon also jumped onboard, cutting a few ironborn raiders before barking orders. "Form up! Come on, lads! Get in line!"

Robb panted, yet could help a grin forming. "I was wondering when you'd show up, Your Grace. Certainly took your sweet time getting here."

Daveth shrugged it off. "Well, I couldn't let you have all the fun now, my friend. I'm here now, and this time we'll see it through to the end."

Robb nodded and glanced back at Victarion Greyjoy, eager to fight with Daveth again.

"So, you've finally shown up, boy. Well, come! My axe is thirsty, and it yearns for your blood!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done, though this one was a bit shorter. So again I'll be breaking this naval battle into two parts. The second one will be completed at some point and from then on the invasion of the Iron Islands will begin. Both the North and royal ships have sustained heavy losses, men and ships included - each numbering in the hundreds. The ironborn seized the chance to take advantage of the seas to turn the tide. And judging by Daveth's response to Robb, it seems he's calmed down and is back to his old self – the one Robb himself recognizes. It's the second round of Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark versus Victarion Greyjoy. This time, it's a battle on the ocean itself. Who will win this outcome? Thoughts? Let me know.


	56. Trial of Sandor Clegane

* * *

**Somewhere in the Riverlands…**

* * *

Bodrin and Gendry were blindfolded, led by the arms by Thoros of Myr and Anguy to a hidden location in the Hollow Hill. Both didn't know where they were being taken to, but somehow Bodrin did not have a good feeling by being surrounded by the Brotherhood Without Banners group; had to be a small band of outlaws, nothing more. At least that's what the old man had previously assumed. Once he felt himself being tugged forward again, Bodrin had to guts to finally speak up.

"Seven hells, at least tell us where you're taking us," he spoke up.

Thoros looked back at Bodrin. "Sorry about that, old man, but it's better for you if you don't see where we're going."

"But why the secrecy?"

Anguy felt increasingly irritated. "Because we can't risk any of you selling us out to the Lannisters, that's why."

_'The Lannisters? They're the King's maternal relatives,'_  he noticed.

Being led into a nearby cave, Hollow Hill, Thoros raised his hand up – motioning for the small team to stop. He pulled out a flask before taking a big sip; once finished, Thoros politely held it towards Bodrin. The old man thought there was something near his face considering the smell, but still couldn't see since his face remained hidden underneath the hood and his hands were tied.

"What is it?" Bodrin asked suspiciously.

"Blackstrap rum," Thoros answered. "Not easy finding molasses in war time."

"I'd have some," Gendry requested.

Bodrin did not seem to appreciate that. "Perhaps later, my boy; once we're someplace safer."

"What's wrong, old man? You don't feel safe here?" Anguy taunted.

"Nowhere is safe, child. Not with Balon Greyjoy rebelling against His Grace King Daveth."

"Yet it takes place along the western coast."

"Look, I don't know where you're taking us. Could be leading Gendry and I into a trap for all we know."

"Do you take us for bandits, cutthroats… or Lannister henchmen?"

"I take you for reasonable human beings, I hope."

Anguy shook his head and pushed the two into the cave. Thoros caught Bodrin before the old man stumbled forward, considering each step is steep and slippery – unsafe for men Bodrin's age. Gendry slipped and fell a while, but the young man quickly got back up. Around them in this damp, dark cave lit torches were hung on the walls with a campfire sitting in the middle. Bodrin felt chills running up and down his spine, yet felt surprising warmth nearby. It was then that Thoros and Anguy made both Bodrin and Gendry stop in their tracks before finally removing their hoods. Both men blinked to adjust to the light before taking a moment to take in their new surroundings. They never seen this cave and wondered why they were brought here.

"What's this place?" Gendry asked.

Anguy looked at the former apprentice smith. "This place is somewhere neither wolves nor lions come prowling. Now leave it at that."

"What are you going to do to us?" Bodrin asked.

Thoros glanced to his left. "Just answer a couple questions for us and you're free to go. Do you know this man here?" he pointed.

     
  

Bodrin looked in Thoros' direction and saw a couple other apparent outlaws dragging a rather large man who still struggled in his restraints. His face was covered as well, but Bodrin noticed the armor he wore. Whoever this man was, the Brotherhood Without Banners must've wanted him alive for something. When they finally removed the hood, Bodrin's eyes widened as he recognized him: with long hair covering the right half of his face, unveiling severe burn scars on that side was someone Bodrin was familiar with all too well.

"Well?" Thoros pressed.

"That's the Hound. Sandor Clegane," Bodrin answered. "The Mountain's younger brother. Last I heard, the Hound quit the field during the Battle of Blackwater Bay when Ser Loras Tyrell laid siege to the capital – ignoring direct orders from King Daveth himself. No one's seen or heard from him since then."

Thoros nodded his head, appreciating the old merchant's honesty. Sandor, having overheard that, glared at Bodrin.

"Bodrin? The fuck are you doing with one of the Oathkeeper's spies, Thoros?" he asked bluntly.

"'Spy'?" said Anguy suspiciously; the other Brotherhood outlaws raised their eyebrows as well.

"I was one of King Daveth's contacts among the smallfolk back at the capital," Bodrin explained, hoping they'd listen before doing anything rash. "Whenever the poor, unfortunate and desperate had no one to turn to or any sort of issue that couldn't be resolved, they asked me to bring their complaints to the royal court, to King's attention."

"And how is that relevant? What's the difference?"

"I— some people like to talk, you see; a lot actually. Most of the 'interesting' ones tend to come from brothels or even the local marketplace."

"How did you come to be one of the Oathkeeper's confidants?"

Bodrin shook his head. "I still don't understand why to this day, my lords. All I did was pass on some things to the King when he passed through the local markets. His Grace was just the Crown Prince at the time, you see. Turns out it was helpful. King Daveth rewarded me by naming me as the smallfolk's representative within King's Landing… and one of his whisperers."

"How many does the Oathkeeper have?"

"I don't know. Hundreds? Thousands? I don't know."

Before Anguy pressed further, Thoros of Myr raised his hand. "Was the Oathkeeper good to you? Did he… mistreat you or any of the locals in any way?" he asked.

"Oh no, His Grace was good to me," Bodrin shook his head. "He made sure we were taken care of from the Street of Flour all the way to Flea Bottom."

"Yet his brother, Joffrey Baratheon—"

"That little monster Joffrey was the reason why I'm this far out here. He started that horrible riot back at King's Landing," Bodrin blurted out. "It was near the end of Renly Baratheon's uprising. The brief civil war left the common people starving; the crops we received from the Riverlands were running dry. So I asked King Daveth and his then-Hand of the King, Lord Eddard Stark, when we would receive more food. We were so hungry. Before he could finish explaining, his brother ordered the City Watch to kill us all."

"Why's that?"

"Because someone threw cow shit at his head!"

Anguy and the other Brotherhood outlaws stifled with chuckles and quiet laughter as they heard the story. Thoros, meanwhile, continued listening.

"So the Oathkeeper had nothing to do with it?" he asked.

Bodrin shook his head. "No, ser. He and Lord Stark tried to get him to stop, but it was too late."

Thoros nodded his head. "And the deaths of Robert Baratheon's bastards?" he asked. "How did the legendary Oathkeeper handle that?"

"When he was made aware of the… the bloodshed, oh Gods, those poor children…" Bodrin choked. "King Daveth was furious. He executed the City Watch's Commander Janos Slynt before stripping his brother of all titles and powers and exiled him to the Wall. He's in the Night's Watch now."

"And you got out of there before or during?"

"During."

_'No lies or any trace of deception. Good. Old man's being honesty with me. The Lord of Light does appreciate honesty,'_ Thoros was pleased. Sandor, meanwhile, still complained.

"Still doesn't explain why you or that bastard boy traveled all the way out here."

Gendry felt offended at the apparent insult towards him and Bodrin, mostly towards Bodrin since the old merchant's been looking after him since they escaped King's Landing when the massacre was being carried out.

"And you," Thoros turned his attention towards Sandor. "Quite the testimony, wouldn't you agree?"

The Hound simply ignored him. "You look like a bunch of swineherds," he told everyone in attendance.

"Some of us  _were_  swineherds," replied Anguy, "and some of us tanners and masons. But that was before. Now we're something else entirely."

"You're still swineherds and tanners and masons. You think carrying a crooked spear makes you a soldier?"

"No," a voice called out. "Fighting in a war makes you a soldier."

Bodrin recognized that voice, as did Sandor Clegane. All eyes turned towards a certain direction as the figure stepping out from the shadows was revealed to be the Brotherhood Without Banners' leader. He had red hair and a longer reddish-grey beard, though his hairline receded; an eyepatch covered his right eye and his face bore scars. He looked much older, but Bodrin was still able to recognize him.

"Lord Beric Dondarrion…?" Bodrin said surprised.

Beric looked at Bodrin. "Hello again, my old friend. It's nice to see that you're still alive."

Sandor narrowed his eyes. "You've seen better days."

"And I won't see them again," the Lord of Blackhaven said plainly.

Sandor looked around the cave, noticing each outlaw came from different backgrounds. "Stark deserters, Baratheon deserters," he examined them all. "You lot aren't fighting in a war, you're running from it."

"And yet based off of Bodrin's testimony you yourself ran from it," Beric countered. "And here you stand 1,000 miles from home. Which of us is running?"

"Untie these ropes and we'll find out," he challenged. "What are you doing leading a mob of peasants?"

"Two years ago, Ned Stark ordered me to execute your brother in King Robert's name."

"Ned Stark is dead. King Robert is dead. My brother's still alive," the Hound spat. "You're fighting for ghosts from a bygone age, no longer worth or meaningful to anyone anymore."

Beric nodded at that statement. "Aye. That's what we all are. Ghosts; waiting for you in the dark. You can't see us, but we see you," his smug grin soon turned serious and intimidating. "No matter whose cloak you wear, Lannister, Stark, Baratheon or whoever, you prey on the weak. The Brotherhood Without Banners will hunt you down."

"Beric," Bodrin exclaimed rather surprised. "What's happened to you? You never acted like this before."

"A lot has happened to us these past two years, Bodrin, and some haven't been for the better despite your testimony."

Sandor scoffed. "So what? You found God now? Is that it?"

"Aye," Beric proudly admitted. "I've been reborn in the light of the one true god. As have we all. As would any man who's seen the things we've seen. We are brothers here; sworn to the realm, to our God and to each other."

One of the outlaws, Tom Sevenstrings, plucked a string. "We are knights of the Hollow Hill, ready to defend the weak from men like you."

"'Knights'?" Sandor sneered at the mention of that word. "If you mean to murder me, then bloody well get on with it."

Thoros of Myr chimed in. "You'll die soon enough, dog. But it won't be murder, only justice," he promised.

"And a kinder fate than you deserve," Anguy declared. "Lions, you called yourselves. At the Mummer's Ford, girls of seven years were raped before reinforcements arrived, and babes still on the breast were cut in two while their mothers watched before they were driven away."

Another Brotherhood outlaw, who they called the Mad Huntsman, stepped forward. "The very same thing occurred at Sherrer. No lion ever killed with such cruelty."

"I wasn't at the Mummer's Ford, nor Sherrer," the Hound denied the allegations. "Dump your dead children at some other door."

"House Clegane was built upon dead children," answered Thoros. "Do you deny it, dog? Twenty years ago, I saw them lay Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys before the Iron Throne."

The Hound's mouth twitched angrily. "Do you take me for my brother? Is being born Clegane a crime?"

"Murder is a crime!" shouted Anguy.

"I never touched the Targaryen babes! I never saw them, never smelt them, never heard them bawling! You want to cut my throat, get on with it! But don't call me murderer and pretend that you're not."

Another Brotherhood outlaw, Karrem, a local butcher from the Crossroads Inn, stomped angrily towards Sandor. "You murdered my boy Mycah! My  _only_  boy!" he screamed. "You remember him? Because I do. I wake up every morning during these last two years knowing that I'll never see his face ever again," his face twisted between anger and grief. "He was only 12 years old, unarmed, couldn't defend himself and yet you rode him down. Arya Stark told me she saw you slinging my son's corpse over your horse like he was some deer. You took him away from me, don't say you never did. You murdered him!"

Bodrin's eyes were wide with shock at hearing this still-grieving father retell the story.  _'Why? How could someone murder an innocent child like that?'_  he thought horrified.

"Aye, he was a bleeder," Sandor admitted.

Beric exchanged glances between Sandor and Karrem, carefully examining each word carefully. "The butcher has named you a murderer. You don't deny killing his boy?" he questioned.

The big man shrugged. "I was Joffrey's sworn shield at the time. His boy attacked a Prince of royal blood."

"Lies!" Karrem shouted. "Three witnesses, including the new King and Queen along with her sister all saw Joffrey hurting my boy! Mycah just ran away fearing for his life!"

"Then I should have killed all of you. Not my place to question Princes."

Back and forth, Beric turned back to the Hound. "You stand accused of murder, but no one here knows the truth of the charge. So it's not for us to judge you. Only the Lord of Light may do that now," he spoke firmly before issuing the words. "I sentence you to trial by combat."

In Westeros, a trial by combat is a custom by which can determine the guilt or innocence of a person when accused of a crime. In lieu of a standard trial where a lord – or a council of them – hears the testimony from the involved parties and makes a ruling, one or all parties may choose the option of a trial by combat. Only highborn noblemen have the right to request such a trial, whereas smallfolk do not. As such, this right of demanding a trial by combat is held to be so inviolable that even a lord that is fully convinced that the accused should die would be hesitant to simply deny such a request (if it is made in public, at least). Even members of the royal family or high officials such as the Hand of the King would feel incapable of denying the request if it was made publicly. The accused could then represent themselves or, if unable, may ask for a champion to represent them.

The Hound frowned suspiciously, but looked around with contempt. "So, who will it be?" he looked at Thoros. "Should we find out if your fire god really loves you, priest?" he turned towards Anguy. "Or you, archer? What are you worth with a sword in your hand?" he turned towards Karrem. "Or is the butcher the bravest one here?"

"Aye. Karrem might be," he said. "But it's me you'll fight."

The Mad Huntsman sliced apart the ropes that bound Sandor Clegane's hands together, making the Hound massage a sore wrist. As preparations for the Hound's trial by combat began, Beric Dondarrion knelt before the campfire and closed his eyes in prayer. The red priest, Thoros of Myr, stepped forward and clasped his hands together in prayer; the other Brotherhood outlaws lowered their heads to pray.

Gendry bit his lip. "Mother have mercy."

Thoros lifted his arms. "Lord, cast your light upon us," he recited.

All around the cave, the brotherhood without banners lifted their own voices in response. "Lord of Light, defend us."

"Lord of Light, protect us in our darkness."

"Lord of Light, shine your face upon us."

"Light your flame among us, R'hllor," said Thoros still reciting the religious prayer. "Show us the truth. Strike this man down if he is guilty. Give strength to his sword if he is true. Lord of Light, give us wisdom, for the night is dark and full of terrors."

"For the night is dark and full of terrors," the others chanted.

The Hound ripped a sword free from one of the Brotherhood attendants and threw away the scabbard. The Mad Huntsman gave him his oaken shield, all studded with iron and painted yellow, the three black dogs of Clegane emblazoned upon it. Lord Beric was given his own shield, so hacked and battered that the purple lightning and the scatter of stars upon it had almost been obliterated.

Unsmiling, Beric Dondarrion laid the edge of his longsword against the palm of his left hand, and drew it slowly down. Blood ran dark from the gash he made, and washed over the steel. And then the sword took fire.

***WHOOSH!***

Startled, Sandor Clegane stepped backwards – still afraid of fire. "Burn in seven hells," he cursed.

Beric waited silent, calm as still water, his shield on his left arm and his sword burning in his right hand. Lit from below, his face was a death mask, his missing eye a red and angry wound. The sword was aflame from point to crossguard, but Dondarrion seemed not to feel the heat. He stood so still he might have been carved of stone. But when the Hound charged him, he moved fast enough.

***CLASH!***

***SLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***CLANG!***

The flaming sword leapt up to meet the cold one, long streamers of fire trailing in its wake like the ribbons the Hound had spoken of. Steel rang on steel. No sooner was his first slash blocked than Clegane made another, but this time Beric's shield got in the way, and wood chips flew from the force of the blow. Hard and fast the cuts came, from low and high, from right and left, and each one Dondarrion blocked. The flames swirled about his sword and left red and yellow ghosts to mark its passage. Each move Beric made fanned them and made them burn the brighter, until it seemed as though the lightning lord stood within a cage of fire.

As Sandor edged back, Beric went on the offensive, filling the air with ropes of fire, driving the bigger man back on his heels. Clegane caught one blow high on his shield, and a painted dog lost a head. He countercut, and Dondarrion interposed his own shield and launched a fiery backslash. The outlaw Brotherhood shouted on their leader.

"Guilty," they chanted. "Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"

"Kill him!" Karrem shouted.

The Hound parried a cut at his head, grimacing as the heat of the flames beat against his face. He grunted and cursed and reeled away.

***CLASH!***

***SLASH!***

***SWISH!***

***CLANG!***

Beric gave him no respite. Hard on the big man's heels he followed, his arm never still. The swords clashed and sprang apart and clashed again, splinters flew from the lightning shield while swirling flames kissed the dogs once, and twice, and thrice. The Hound moved to his right, but Dondarrion blocked him with a quick sidestep and drove him back the other way… toward the sullen red blaze of the firepit. Clegane gave ground until he felt the heat at his back. A quick glance over his shoulder showed him what was behind him, and almost cost him his head when Beric attacked anew.

Three steps up and two back, a move to the left that Lord Beric blocked, two more forward and one back, clang and clang, and the big oaken shields took blow after blow after blow. The Hound's lank dark hair was plastered to his brow sheen of sweat. Karrem thought he could see the beginnings of fear wake in Sandor's eyes. Lord Beric's flaming sword whirled and slashed. In one wild flurry, he took back all the ground the Hound had gained, sending Sandor staggering to the very edge of the firepit once more.

The Hound screamed and had fought his way back to his feet with a reckless counterattack. Not until Beric retreated a pace did Sandor seem to realize that the fire that roared so near his face was his own shield, burning. With a shout of revulsion, he hacked down savagely on the broken oak, completing its destruction. The shield shattered, one piece of it spinning away, still afire, while the other clung stubbornly to his forearm. His efforts to free himself only fanned the flames. His sleeve caught, and now his whole left arm was ablaze.

"Finish him!" Karrem urged Beric, and other voices took up the chant of "Guilty!"

Then, as smooth as summer silk, Beric slid close to make an end of the man before him. Sandor gave a rasping scream, however, and knocked Beric to his knees and raised his sword high in the air and brought it crashing down with all his strength. Beric raised his sword up to block the blade…

***BLEARUGH!***

All was silent as a tomb. Beric's burning sword suddenly snapped in two and Sandor's cold steel plowed into his flesh where his shoulder joined his neck and clove him clean down to the ribcage. Blood came rushing out in a hot black gush. Beric's knees folded slowly, as if for prayer. When his mouth opened, only blood came out before collapsing onto the ground, dead. Sandor Clegane jerked backward, still burning. He ripped the remnants of his shield off and flung them away with a curse, then rolled in the dirt to smother the fire running along his arm.

Thoros rushed to the body of the fallen Beric Dondarrion, placing both hands on the corpse and kneeling in prayer. "Lord, cast your light upon this man, your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness. His flame has been extinguished. Restore his flame. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Unwilling to accept the outcome, Karrem unveiled his concealed dagger and ran to Sandor – who remained squirming on the ground ridding himself of the fire shield.

"No, don't!" Bodrin shouted.

Thoros still kept reciting the prayer. "Lord, cast your light upon this man, your servant. Bring him back from death and darkness. His flame has been extinguished. Restore his flame. For the night is dark and full of terrors."

Before Karrem could reach the Hound, Gendry found himself sprinting after the butcher and made a grab for him with only moments to spare. As he led the Crossings Inn butcher away, Karrem struggled in the boy's grip.

"No! Let go of me, bastard!" Karrem shouted in anger. "Let me go! He killed my son! He killed Mycah!" he shouted once more, daring the Hound to deny it.

Sandor taunted with a mocking laughter, panting for air. "Looks like their god likes me more than your boy."

"Burn in hell, you murdering piece of shit!"

"He will, Karrem," said a voice scarce stronger than a whisper. When Bodrin, Gendry, Karrem and Sandor turned, Lord Beric Dondarrion was standing behind them, his bloody hand clutching Thoros by the shoulder. "But not today."

_'How is this possible? I saw him die! What kind of magic is this?'_  thought Bodrin. The old merchant eyed Beric Dondarrion as he stood to his feet, apparently unharmed and allowing Sandor Clegane to leave the hideout. Things simply didn't make sense, and with this... 'Lord of Light', Bodrin felt increasingly uneasy.  _'It's not safe here. I got to take Gendry out of here, and quickly!'_


	57. Battle at the Sunset Sea (Part 2)

* * *

**Aboard the _Fury_ …**

* * *

Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark along with their companions surrounded Victarion Greyjoy. As the ships collided and burned around them, Daveth examined any potential weak spot that could be exploited as Horn Hill archers shot down ironborn raiders attempting to board the  _Fury_ ; they never got far, though. Both Randyll and Dickon commanded their men to put up a strong defense with shield towers and spears sticking out the gaps to keep the ironborn at bay. Nearby, more royal expeditionary vessels rammed and sunk Iron Fleet vessels after hitting their sides on both ends.

  

"So, you've finally shown up, boy. Well, come! My axe is thirsty, and it yearns for your blood!" Victarion proclaimed.

Daveth scoffed, already assuming the Knight's Dance fighting style. "You'll find that you won't be so fortunate this time, Victarion."

Not bellowing further bravado, Victarion charged. Daveth and Robb moved to engage the Lord Captain in battle, reinforced by their generals. Together they quickly overwhelmed Victarion before being forced backwards as he spun his axe around to keep himself from getting surrounded. Victarion gripped his axe tightly, giving a small wince which the Young Stag himself noticed.

"Getting tired already? This fight hasn't even lasted at least five minutes yet," he taunted.

"Be silent, boy!"

_'And the worm takes the bait,'_  the Young Stag smirked. "Come give it a try, then."

Victarion lunged, but was forced back by Daveth and Robb's blades. Tried as he might to force his axe downwards, Victarion had to quickly withdraw when Stannis Baratheon and Greatjon Umber moved to outflank him as Rickard Karstark moved to attack from behind. Victarion kicked Rickard in the chest and barely had enough time to halt Stannis' advance before being shoulder tackled by Lord Umber. Victarion stumbled but recovered enough to throw aside Grey Wind as the direwolf lunged and snapped its teeth at him. Lord Karstark seized his moment to take advantage of such distraction to strike Victarion, but only managed to smack his kraken helm. The Lord Captain spun and backhanded the elderly Karstark as Stannis himself moved to stab Victarion's unguarded right flank.

***THRUST!***

***STAB!***

"Gah!" Victarion exclaimed, swinging his battleaxe – narrowly missing Stannis as more and more ships began rammed his fleet from the sides.

Daveth and Robb stood with their generals, ready to close in for the kill. But at that moment, both were temporarily blindsided as Yara Greyjoy intervened and jumped aboard the  _Fury_  from her ship  _Black Wind_ , kicking at their backs and making them stumbling forward. Victarion used this to his advantage and charged, knocking Greatjon, Rickard and Stannis aside before colliding with both Daveth and Robb – knocking them both backwards and flat onto the deck.

***BAM!***

***THUD!***

"Oof!" both young men grunted.

Victarion panted. "Tired, eh? You boys never learn," he said before noticing his niece. "Go get the prize. And take down as many greenlanders as a token to the Drowned God."

Yara sneered at that last bit, but did as she was told. She had a mission of her own as she threw up grappling hooks to  _King Robert's Hammer_.  _'Hold on, Theon. I'm taking you home,'_  she thought.

Daveth regained his footing and saw Yara climbing aboard his flagship. "Lord Tarly!" he pointed at Yara. "Don't let her get close to the prisoner! Stop her!"

Randyll noticed. "On me, men! Move to intercept!" he began barking orders.

In the cabin of  _King Robert's Hammer_ , Theon Greyjoy remained gagged and chained up – unsure of what fate laid in store for him, but he could hear the battle raging on outside. He scooted over to try to get a good look, but the windows were barred and the door closed. But the noise grew louder and closer to the cabin itself, causing Theon to shift and shudder. Once the doors were forcibly kicked open, Theon saw Yara entering the cabin with several of her crew.

 

"Yara?" he sounded surprised, muffled by the gag.

Yara leaned down to remove the gag from Theon's mouth before struggling to undo the bindings surrounding her brother's hands and legs.

"Hush, now," she calmly replied. "I'm getting you out of here. We're going home."

_'Home? Father never wanted me back home, and he didn't listen to me!'_  Theon thought. As thankful as he felt, he couldn't help but feel very concerned for his sister at the moment. "It's not safe here, Yara," he warned her. "Forget about me! Save yourself! Get out of here! Please!"

"I said hush!" Yara scolded, tugging at the bindings. "You were a terrible baby, did you know that? Bawling all the time, never sleeping. And one night you just wouldn't shut up, screaming like a dying pig. I walked over to your crib, I looked down at you. I wanted to strangle you," her face turned from serious to soothing. "And you looked up at me and you stopped screaming. You smiled at me. You're the only brother I've got left, Theon. I'm not leaving you to die here."

Theon felt a pang of guilt, feeling a sense of betrayal on his part for siding with the enemy but also hearing Yara's confession and reasons as to why she's going to dangerous lengths to win back his freedom. But Theon still felt as if Yara had the best chance of survival by leaving him behind. As Yara got one rope undone, one of her 50 ironborn raiders slumped to the ground.

***THUD!***

Yara shot back to her feet and turned around. Randyll and Dickon Tarly stood at the entrance, their archers' bows aimed directly at them.

"The barbarian's taken the bait again," Randyll noted.

"Run, Yara!" Theon repeated his shouts.

Yara shook her head. "I'm not leaving without my brother."

"Then he can mourn for you."

One of the Horn Hill archers let loose an arrow. Stretching the bowstring and nocking point, arrows were being let loose one after another.

***STRETCHING, TWANG!***

***WHIP!***

***THUD!***

The first arrow pierced through Yara's second-in-command's eyes, while more began targeting her men in such a narrow room. Yara and her men dove for cover, assessing the situation while waiting to the opportune moment to launch their counterattack. She could barely catch a glimpse of the Tarly men hailing a barrage of arrows in the cabin. Eventually, the ironborn got over their initial surprise and moved to strike back at their aggressors before they had a chance to get off another shot.

***SLASH!***

***CLASH!***

***THRUST!***

Spinning left and right, Yara killed a few Tarly men. "You killed dozens upon thousands of our countrymen," she hollered, "and you keep my brother captive.  _Our_  prince! Everything they've done to him, they've also done to us. As long as you hold our prince captive with impunity, the word 'ironborn' means nothing! You mainlanders will pay for this outrage!"

"Wrong way 'round, bitch!" Dickon retorted. "You ironborn vermin invaded our lands, attacked our homes! You all tore families apart! This is only retaliation for the crimes you committed!"

Theon closed his eyes and looked away, unable to look as Yara and Dickon fought each other in the cabin. Despite the waves crashing against  _King Robert's Hammer_ , the crew themselves retained their balance and shifted their positions the direction the waves rocked the vessel to prevent the ironborn from overwhelming them. The ironborn let out their battlecries before their shouts changed to surprise as the military-trained, disciplined Tarly soldiers knocked them out of the chambers and out onto the open deck to allow more room for mobility. Some swapped to a more defensive line, lining up their shields to create an impenetrable wall despite the ironborn's persistence in moving forward.

"Spears armed!" Randyll yelled as Yara's men entered into range.

The Tarly pikemen drop their shields into a fighting position and placed them between their shields before the ironborn could possibly breach their defensive lines. Below them, hundreds of thousands of royal, northern and ironborn forces continued clashing their blades against each other as more longships and war galleys burned in the naval warfare. Yara isn't giving up and rallies the men around her.

"With me, lads! Break their lines!" she hollered.

The ironborn moved close, slashing their blades and bashing their clubs against the shields before the Tarly spears lunged forth, piercing through them like butter. One of Yara's lieutenants was thrown back before being impaled.

Yara screamed and grabbed the wooden shaft of one of the spears, breaking it with her sword and leapt forward before jamming it into one of the Tarly's eyes. Fueled by adrenaline, she yanked off one of the shields and moved around before any of them had a chance to react. Princess Yara slowly picked off the Tarly shieldmen one-by-one, allowing more of her men to plow through the defensive lines. Dickon and Yara faced off again, but they were interrupted when another horn sounded out.

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

Dickon and Yara looked out the window and watched as ships led the  _Arbor Queen_ , sailed by Lord Paxter Redwyne, reinforced the royal forces – unloading a barrage of spitfires and launching fireballs from the deck's trebuchets on the Iron Fleet. Below, Yara could see Daveth Baratheon, Robb Stark and their generals surrounding Victarion Greyjoy as more ironborn warships were crippled and sunk. By then Yara had determined that once the royal forces adapted to their surroundings and the environment around them, the tide would eventually turn.

Lord Randyll Tarly of Horn Hill took advantage of the confusion and carved through the ironborn with his family's ancestral Valyrian steel sword Heartsbane. One of the finest military commanders the Seven Kingdoms had ever seen, and he's in his element. Yara sees this oncoming threat cutting down her crew, and she goes to stop him. Yara spins round and locks eyes with Randyll. Both pause momentarily, staring each other down.

***CLASH!***

***SLASH!***

***CLANG!***

The ironborn princess comes through the crush and welcomes the contest with such ferocity, taking advantage of her youth and stamina. Yara manages to punch Randyll, but seems to piss him off. He grabs her by the hair and yanks her head back, and repeatedly punches her so hard Yara's nose burst open with blood; and then again and again.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

Randyll utilized his combat experience and knocked Yara to the ground, her face hitting the wooden deck. She regained her balance, her face paled as she watched her men being thrown off the ledge of  _King Robert's Hammer_  into the ocean below. A shadow crossed Theon's face and he was filled with regret and conflict. Yara knew her father's second campaign, that hard started off so well before, had once again become a complete and utter failure.

"All this for what… What for, father?" Yara slowly cursed.

"I tried to warn our father what would happen, sister," Theon looked away before indicating Yara to leave. "Just… go. Save yourself."

Yara stared at him for a moment before grabbing a grappling hook to swing from  _King Robert's Hammer_  to  _Black Wind_  with what remained of her crew. It wasn't worth it. Taking one final glance at the royal flagship, Yara turned to her crew.

"Fall back," she reluctantly ordered. "Fall back to Pyke. Our cause is lost."

Her captain and crew reluctantly raised the  _Black Wind_ 's sails to leave the naval battlefield with several dozens of remaining ironborn ships that were lucky enough to escape the carnage. A proud ironborn Yara may be, but she was a smart one: she knows the Iron Fleet is falling apart.

Randyll watched as the  _Black Wind_ sailed away into the distant fog, fleeing to the Iron Islands with the few ships left. He turned to look at Theon, full of scorn.

"You let her go," he gruffly said.

Theon shook his head. "She's my sister. It's hard to fight your family," he explained offering no resistance. "What does it matter now? It's over."

Randyll glares at Theon, observing the captive carefully. Back down below, Daveth Baratheon and Robb Stark along with their generals were giving Victarion Greyjoy a really hard time. Outnumbered and realizing that some of his once vast ships were being reduced as more of the royal forces rammed and battered his own. Victarion looked over his shoulder, noticing the  _Black Wind_  sailing away. The  _Iron Victory_  might be able to give chase, but the corvus still kept the Iron Fleet flagship locked onto the  _Fury_. Men were screaming and the ships were engulfed in flames.

"They're retreating! Look!" exclaimed a Dragonstone soldier.

Daveth looked and observed the remaining Iron Fleet ships sailing away, abandoning the rest of their brethren to their fate. Quickly seizing this opportunity, Daveth brought down Stormbringer against Victarion's battleaxe, slamming it repeatedly before Greatjon Umber moved around and smacked it out of his hands. Now utterly disarmed, Victarion concluded that his remaining option now was to retreat. Kicking the corvus loose, the Lord Captain attempted to climb the grappling hook's rope onto the  _Iron Victory_  but felt something heavy weighing him down. Looking at his legs, Victarion saw Daveth had leapt from the  _Fury_  and clung onto Victarion's waistline.

The Young Stag maintained a firm grip as Victarion kicked him, enduring the pain being inflicted on his right shoulder and torso. He wasn't going to let him get away again. No, this was his only chance for checkmate.

"Cut the rope!" he hollered. "Cut it now!"

A few were reluctant to do so since their King was still hanging onto Victarion, but the only one to carry out the order was Ser Brynden Tully, Robb's great-uncle. Swinging his blade, the Blackfish cut the rope holding the two of them and they both plunged into the water and hit the surface hard.

***SPLASH!***

Both Daveth and Victarion were being pulled down by their armor, the weight of such were intent on dragging them both to a watery grave if neither made it to the surface. Daveth held his breath and swam upwards, but Victarion held him down – intending on taking the Young Stag down with him; one more offering to the Drowned God. Daveth kicked Victarion in the face, despite the current impeding his movements. As flames lit the surface above and hundreds of corpses sank into the depths below, Daveth felt his chest tightening.

_'If he keeps me down here, we'll both drown!'_  he realized. Giving a hard kick to Victarion's face, Daveth momentarily felt himself getting out of his grasp.

This move allowed the Young Stag to quickly remove the full set of heavy armor weighing him down, discarding them into the deep, dark water. He couldn't allow anything hindering his movements and, given the current dire circumstances he found himself in, his own armor itself was more of a liability than an asset. Once he felt himself being reasonably lighter, Daveth immediately swam for the surface – his chest tightening even harder and felt as if his throat was being crushed before his vision started to slowly fade.

"Where is he?" Robb searched the Sunset Sea.

Roose Bolton pointed northeast. "There he is! Over there!"

All eyes turned to the direction in time to notice Daveth popping his head out of the water, gasping for air and about thirty feet away from them. Once they breathed a sigh of relief, Stannis silenced them abruptly.

"Bring him aboard," he commanded.

Olyvar Frey, who scrambled about the deck, managed to find a lifeline long enough for Daveth to swim to and reach it. Grabbing the long strand of rope, Olyvar whipped back and threw as hard as he could.

***SPLASH!***

Daveth wiped his eyes and, still gasping for air, noticed the rope just floating in the water ten feet away from him.

"Grab hold, Your Grace!" Olyvar hollered. "Grab the rope! We'll pull you in!"

Moving his arms in a circular motion and kicking his legs, Daveth swam towards the lifeline albeit he was still exhausted from being held under for so long. But as he stretched his right hand outwards, Victarion Greyjoy sprung up from the Sunset Sea and aggressively dragged Daveth under again.

"Your Grace!" Olyvar shouted.

Back underwater, Daveth struggled in the grasp of Victarion as small bubbles of air pockets escaped his lips. Victarion held his breath and intended to finish the fight on his terms: by drowning. It was something most ironborn did to their prisoners and enemies alike, and this was to be no exception. The Lord Captain waved around as Daveth thrashed about with all his might, which occasionally brought them to the surface.

As they both popped up, Victarion wrapped his right arm around Daveth's throat and kept his left arm compressed around his chest. "I told you this place would be your grave, boy!" he growled. "Now drown beneath the waves!"

Onboard the  _Fury_ , Robb watched on in horror as his best friend/brother-in-law was fighting for his life in the open water. He wanted to jump in to help, but Roose Bolton and Stannis Baratheon held him back – implying he would only be a burden and falling fiery debris from the Iron Fleet vessels they had sunk would crush him even if he made an attempt.

"Archers! Shoot that Greyjoy!" shouted Rickard.

Before they could, Greatjon Umber waved them down. "Don't do it, ya bloody fools! Ya might hit the King!" he argued. "We need to get around them first!"

"But how?" Robb asked almost desperate. "We won't make it in time!"

"Not yet," Stannis observed.

Robb looked as to what Stannis was talking about and noticed the  _Seaswift_  quickly coming into view. A small ship with big sails, the  _Seaswift_ 's captain claims that she is the fastest ship in the Royal Fleet. Living up to its reputation, the  _Seaswift_  sailed around Daveth and Victarion. With Lannister archers at the ready, Ser Kevan Lannister raised his hand up.

"Archers, nock arrows!" he ordered.

"Nock! Draw!"

Victarion heard the orders being shouted behind him, and each time he tried to spin around to hold Daveth in front of him the Young Stag resisted and spun right back around to give his archers a clear shot. The King felt his strength slowly leaving him as Victarion's grip around his throat tightened.

"Do it, Ser Kevan! Shoot the son of a bitch!" his voice strained. "SHOOT HIM!"

Ser Kevan nodded. "Loose!"

In perfect unison, the Lannister archers fired their arrows and nearly each one found its mark.

***STRETCHING, TWANG!***

***WHIP!***

***THUD!***

Victarion roared with pain as Daveth pushed back against the Lord Captain, smacking the back of his head against his nose, followed by repeated elbows and kicks before finally pulling himself free. Daveth slowly slunk beneath the waves before popping up again, coughing and gasping for air.

"Bring His Grace aboard! Take the Greyjoy prisoner!" Kevan ordered.

One by one, strong chains and grappling hooks were thrown around Victarion. Try as he might to resist, it was obvious there were far too many for him to break hold. A small rope was tossed down by Ser Kevan, allowing Daveth to grab onto as Lannister men-at-arms pulled the Young Stag aboard the  _Seaswift_. Rolling onto his side, Daveth spat out seawater and tried to catch his breath.

" ***cough!* *cough!* *cough!*** "

"Easy now, Your Grace," his great-uncle reassured him.

Daveth slowly opened his eyes. "Is it… ***cough!* *cough!*** Did we win?" he asked.

Ser Kevan nodded. "We did, Your Grace. The ironborn are in full retreat."

The Young Stag wearily nodded his head. "Good," he said simply as he saw his troops dragging Victarion onboard as well who offered heavy resistance. "Bring us back to the  _Fury_ , great-uncle. The crimes that man's committed against the realm are too grave to ignore."

Ser Kevan hesitates for a moment, but tells the  _Seaswift_ 's captain to sail around to the  _Fury_. Once they were brought onboard, Daveth was reunited with his men. The assembled lords and generals stood at the King's side as Victarion Greyjoy was thrown in chains before them. Arrows were still lodged into his back and his kraken helm was knocked off, but Victarion still resisted against his captors who held him down.

Daveth is exhausted, only motivation keeps him standing. Stannis takes a moment to address his fellow lords.

"The influence surrounding the atrocities at Moat Cailin and Deepwood Motte continue to be felt," Stannis spoke. "Our enemies have made the kingdom bleed, slowly yet painfully. Like all of you, I have neither forgotten nor forgiven that. The crimes committed by Victarion Greyjoy of Pyke, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet, include piracy, pillaging, murder and treason."

Daveth glanced at his uncle. "Such charges are not to be taken lightly, Lord Stannis. We must address them here and now."

"You think you've won, boy? I do not acknowledge the greenlanders' proceedings, nor do I acknowledge your authority to judge  _me_ ," Victarion spat, still chained up tightly.

"Still so stubborn and defiant, but I suppose that's how you Greyjoys have always been."

"All I ever did, I did so my people would survive! We are ironborn, boy. We're not subjects, we're not slaves. We do not plow the field or toil in the mine. We take what is ours! And if that meant lives had to be taken, then so be it! I've paid the iron price, and have no regrets doing so."

"And yet you've condemned your ironborn brothers and sisters to death. You knew what the repercussions were, but you did it anyway."

Lord Rickard Karstark stepped forward, snarling at Victarion. "My first son, Harrion, died when your axe chopped his head in two. I lost another son, Torrhen, when you strangled him to death and threw him overboard," he turned to Daveth. "Maybe you don't understand what it means for a father to lose both of his sons, lad, but know this: I would carve out my heart and offer it to the Father if he would let my sons wake from their graves."

Daveth looked at Rickard. "I remember your sons, my lord. Both Harrion and Torrhen were the best House Karstark had to offer. The North will not see another like them again."

"I don't want any southern grief, pity or praise. I want my vengeance, the vengeance you  _promised_  me!"

Robb stepped in. "Enough! Stand down, Lord Karstark!"

Begrudgingly, Rickard glared at his close of kin before stepping aside. Victarion sneered.

"Sounds like you can't keep your own men in line, boy," he mocked. "What does that say about your character? Your leadership?"

Daveth shook his head. "You seek on goading me by spitting provocations and insults? More's the pity for you that such juvenile attempts like that won't work on me."

"This man raided our shorelines, had his own niece attack Deepwood Motte and seize Moat Cailin when our backs were turned!" bellowed Greatjon Umber. "Only a coward would resort to such tactics."

Galbart Glover stepped forth as well. "My own brother Robett was taken captive by the ironborn. Where is he now, I don't know. But the crimes this man's brethren committed against House Glover cannot go ignored!"

The Young Stag raised his hand up, demanding silence. "You've heard the Northmen's complaints against you, Victarion Greyjoy. Do you deny the charges?"

"I deny  _nothing_!" Victarion stood defiant. "And don't demand I bend the knee, either! Because the Iron Islands will never submit to another again."

_'So this is how it's going to be,'_  Daveth thought. "You are a mere fool if you think I aim to put you in your place again. Thousands of people have died because of you and your brother Balon's second rebellion. Letting you walk free would be an insult to their memory. War forces terrible choices on us, I agree, but justice demands its due and cannot be ignored forever."

The Northmen and royal forces watched on as King Daveth stood tall and firm and spoke with authority in his voice.

"Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy, I, Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of My Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, sentence you to die."

Several of the Northmen nodded their heads in agreement. As King Daveth Baratheon unsheathed his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer, he stopped midway and stared at the ground for a moment – contemplating on familiar words of the past.

_"If you do this now, you will never be free of them."_

_"Prove you are above what you say you are. Only then can you truly let go."_

The Northmen looked on in confusion. What was going through his mind? Why the hesitation? But all that ceased when Daveth handed one of them Stormbringer.

 

"Lord Rickard of House Karstark," he announced, "you need this more than I do. You want justice against the man responsible for the deaths of your sons Harrion and Torrhen? Take it. Avenge them, and any debt between us is paid."

Rickard nodded and forcibly pushed his way to the front. "With pleasure," he growled.

Snatching the handle of Stormbringer, Rickard Karstark stood above Victarion Greyjoy with sword in hand and raised it high in the air. Victarion smiled wickedly. "Should've known you'd have someone do your beheadings for you, boy. You don't have what it takes to get the job done yourself."

_'You are wrong. Go to the deepest, darkest corners of the Seven hells,'_  thought the Young Stag.

***SWING!***

***CHOP!***

In one fell swoop, Lord Rickard brought Stormbringer down on the nape of Victarion's neck; the Valyrian steel sword cut through flesh with relative ease. As the head rolled across the  _Fury_ 's deck, Rickard watched as the headless body of Victarion Greyjoy continued to spurt blood and twitch for the next 30 seconds before any movement finally ceased. Rickard stared morosely at Victarion's severed head, lost in his memories of his sons Harrion and Torrhen. His hands gripped tight, balled into fists. Slowly, with visible effort, he relaxes his hands and returns Stormbringer to Daveth.

The Young Stag catches Rickard's eye and gesture towards the  _Wolfsbane_. "And so it is done…" he mused quietly.

Olyvar approached. "So what do we do now?" he asked.

"Have the men get some rest and repair any holes our ships might have," Daveth stared across the distance, gazing across the Sunset Sea. "Come sunrise, they'll be given their instructions from me. The Iron Islands is ours for the taking."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this concludes part two of the naval battle at the Sunset Sea. Yara escapes, but Victarion is beheaded. "A man who passes the sentence should swing the sword" normally doesn't sit well with Daveth, considering his past histories with the Greyjoys. If he carried out the execution himself, he'd never be psychologically free of them. And he did make a promise to one of the northern lords. What do you guys think of it? Was that fair or cowardice? You be the judge. Thoughts? Let me know.


	58. A Man Has No Name

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Two months had passed since King Daveth departed King's Landing with his army to put down the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. Since then, murmurs of well-wishes and concerns for the Young Stag have floated among the smallfolk – considering what had happened in the past at Lannisport all those years ago. But within the chambers of the Tower of the Hand, the gathered lords of the Small Council had assembled, to discuss today's affairs. Their recent guest was Queen Sansa; despite being advised to rest for a moment, the Wolf Queen had to know of Daveth's condition. She kept one hand around her pregnant belly, which had grown in size and was making her feel occasional discomfort. Even so, Sansa remained steadfast in her determination. Sitting alongside her (also making her  _very_  uncomfortable) was her own mother-in-law, Cersei Lannister, who was adamant that she be included as well.

     
  

At the head of the table sat her husband's grandfather and Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister. "We only have the morning for affairs of state. What news do we have?" he coldly asked.

"King Daveth and Robb Stark had struck a decisive blow against Balon Greyjoy and lifted the ironborn's occupation of Deepwood Motte  _and_  Moat Cailin," Varys informed him. "As it stands, they've bested the Iron Fleet at the Sunset Sea despite some setbacks and now plan to take the war to the Iron Islands itself."

"What of my husband and brother?" Sansa glanced at him, her eyes tight and worried and her voice sounded almost pleadingly. "Are they…?"

Varys nodded. "Fine. They're both just fine, Your Grace, I assure you. My little birds have whispered to me that the King got right back on his feet despite suffering serious wounds."

Concern dawned on Sansa's face; her brow furrowed and felt her stomach twist in knots as she listened to the eunuch Master of Whisperers reports. Even though she was relieved that Daveth was all right, Sansa still didn't want to imagine her husband being hurt or anything; he had already earned a vertical scar along his eye during the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

"Rather impressive, I must say," Oberyn chimed in. "Not a bad feat for someone as young as he is."

"Even so, he's only one man," Pycelle pointed out.

Cersei, meanwhile, sat coolly. "He's becoming more like his father. Daveth should've known better than that to simply march off on his own."

"Still, I believe the results speak for themselves. Your son does seem the sort of person to always get the job done no matter the obstacles placed in front of him. I think that says something about his character."

"All the more reason for our enemies to keep thinking that way," Tyrion observed. "Trust me on that one, sister. I've seen how Daveth fights and how he carries out a plan. The more our enemies keep underestimating him, the more battles he'll keep on winning. He has a good mind for strategy and tactics, his men worship him… And the more results he gets done at a fast pace, many more houses will flock to his banner."

"Shouldn't h-he try not to push himself too hard?" Pycelle inquired. "The King's been… driven by his desire for vengeance these past 11 years. With h-his state of mind, I do believe it is imperative that—"

"Everyone's determined by something," Tyrion rebuffed, "I know my nephew better than most. He'll pull through."

"I hope you're right, Lord Tyrion," Sansa acknowledged.

Tywin placed his fist under his chin. "Hmm. What else do we have?"

Varys turned to the King's Hand. "More whispers from the east, my lord."

"The Targaryen girl?"

Sansa raised an eyebrow.  _'Daenerys? The Mad King's daughter?'_  she thought rather puzzled. The Wolf Queen knew the last survivor of House Targaryen was across the Narrow Sea in Essos. Her sister, Arya, had walked into the room carrying goblets of wine – giving each of the lords a cup of their own.

"Daenerys has taken up residence in Meereen as a guest under the city's queen, Saqnizza Dhardu, in recognition for her contribution in helping to overthrow the slave masters," the eunuch continued.

"Overthrow them with what?" asked Cersei skeptically.

"She commands an army of Unsullied, Your Grace, some 8,000 strong. She has a company of sellswords, the Second Sons. She is currently advised by one of the exiles, Jon Connington. And she has three dragons."

_'Dragons?'_  thought Arya, half anxious and half curious.

Cersei remained unconvinced. "Baby dragons, you mean."

Varys shook his head. "No juveniles, I'm afraid. They grow larger with every passing year."

"What of Connington?" Pycelle asked. "We thought he wasted away in disgrace in Lys."

"It would seem the rumors were greatly exaggerating. The disgraced Lord of Griffon's Roost has been living out his days as a sellsword in the Golden Company, but has since come out of hiding to declare for Daenerys Targaryen in her quest to return to Westeros. My birds suggest Connington has since grown from a brash, arrogant hot-head seeking glory into an older, harder and capable military commander."

"And the exile will have made Connington more seasoned and dangerous than ever," Tywin calculated.

Sansa glanced at Tywin. "Who is this Jon Connington, my lord? I've never heard of him."

"Armond Connington's only surviving son and Lord of Griffon's Roost before Aerys named him Hand after dismissing my successor Lord Owen Merryweather," the Old Lion explained. "When Robert Baratheon rebelled against the Iron Throne, Aerys hoped to find someone young and vigorous to match Robert in battle. But Connington at the time was too young, too bold and too eager for glory which ended in a humiliating defeat at the Battle of the Bells. Aerys exiled Connington to Essos for his failure and stripped him of his lands, wealth and titles."

"House Connington was one of House Baratheon's vassals, weren't they? Why would they rebel against their liege lord?"

Tyrion chimed in. "Not every house sided with Robert, I'm afraid. Even some of his own lords sided with the Mad King that day. Although the Conningtons were permitted to keep Griffon's Roost, I'm afraid that Robert distributed nine-tenths of their land among their neighbors in the Stormlands who actually supported him. The Connington's status thus fell from a full noble house to that of landed knights."

Before Sansa could ask any more questions, Cersei cut her daughter-in-law off. "What does it matter? Jon Connington's an old man."

"Dismiss him like that and you're most likely to be taken by surprise," Tywin rebuffed his daughter. "In tactical terms it would be stupid."

"Don't tell me you're worried about a child halfway across the world, father."

Varys chimed in. "A child with a seasoned warrior counseling her and a powerful army at her back, Your Grace," he reminded her.

"Lord Varys is right," Oberyn agreed. "I have been to Essos during my travels in my youth and seen the Unsullied firsthand when I was a sellsword for the Second Sons. They are very impressive on the battlefield…" he turned to Cersei and Sansa, "but less so in the bedroom."

Cersei remained indifferent as Sansa cringed; her shoulders shuddered with a chill as she felt her stomach's contents rise to her throat before being forced down. Cersei looked at her pregnant daughter-in-law, her eyes cold and full of scorn.

"Dragons haven't won a war in 300 years. Armies win them all the time," Tywin dismissed them. "She must be dealt with."

Pycelle looked uncertain. "How, my lord? By force?"

"Eventually, if it comes to that. Varys, can your little birds find their way into Meereen?"

Varys nodded. "Most certainly, my Lord Hand," he said calmly.

Tywin seemed to accept that answer. "Then that will be all for today's agenda. The rest of you, return to your chambers. Grand Maester, escort the Queen to her chambers."

All in attendance and prepped to leave; Sansa slowly stood up, her hand still on her swollen belly and left the room with Grand Maester Pycelle in tow. Tyrion and Cersei also left, but before Arya could leave Tywin stopped her.

"Not you, girl."

Arya stopped in her tracks and turned to face Tywin. "Yes, my lord?"

Tywin stood from his seat, observing the Stark girl glancing back and forth between him and a rolled up piece of paper they both noticed earlier this morning.

"Your maester taught you the basic understanding of literature and how to read?" he asked.

Arya shook her head. "Some, yes, but it was my father who taught me. More than most southern houses," she answered, thinking quickly on her feet; barely a stutter on that one.

That seemed to peak Tywin's curiosity. "Hmm. Never took Eddard Stark as a man to do that," he leaned in closely. "I taught my son Jaime to read. Maester Crelyen came to me one day, told me he wasn't learning. He couldn't make sense of the letters. He reversed them in his head. Crelyen said he'd heard tell of this affliction and that we simply must accept it."

"What did you do?" she asked.

"Hmph," Tywin reminisced that he had that same maester dismissed from his service at Casterly Rock and requested another from the Citadel under the pretense of a grievous insult to his household. "Moments after he told me that, I sat Jaime down for four hours every day… until he learned," he said smugly; proudly. "He hated me for it, for a time. For a long time. But he learned."

"Was Daveth ever like that once?"

Tywin shook his head, amused at the question. "No. My grandson learned to read before he learned how to hold a sword. As King Robert's son and heir, it was customary to groom him to succeed Robert; to educate him on what it means to rule if he were to ever become King and offer guidance whenever necessary. You saw how that turned out so far."

_'Still reserving judgment on that; so long as he treats my sister well, then I suppose I'll give him a chance,'_  Arya thought to herself.

"What killed your father?" Tywin asked abruptly.

Arya winced at the question, remembering full well how her father Lord Eddard Stark lost his life two years ago while she and her sister were placed within Maegor's Holdfast during the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Fading away for a moment again, her words came at a sincere thing she's really said in a long time.

"Loyalty," she reluctantly confessed, "a rigid sense of loyalty. He threw his life away to protect Daveth's at the Blackwater."

Tywin studied Arya closely. "You're a sharp little thing, aren't you?" he turns away.

"Did—"

The Old Lion pauses, turning his back to her but notices Arya already averting her eyes.

"Forgive me, my lord, I shouldn't have asked that question," she apologized.

"No," Tywin said, "but you've already begun."

Arya looks up, blinking her big brown eyes. "Did you know your father, my lord?"

A surprising question, the Old Lion must admit. He hadn't mentioned his father, Lord Tytos Lannister, in so many years. Long before his reign as Lord of Casterly Rock and Warden of the West, Tywin's father Tytos was known throughout the Westerlands as "The Toothless Lion" or "The Laughing Lion" due to being a kind but weak man. He loaned money to lords who never bothered to repay him and his vassals openly ignored his orders, mocking him in open court. It was because of Tytos that House Lannister's reputation and power drastically declined before Tywin made it strong again and perception of weakness that caused their vassals House Reyne of Castamere to rise up in rebellion in the first place. Tywin put down the rebellion personally, extinguishing their house and re-establishing the fearsome reputation of House Lannister.

_'He was more kitten than lion,'_  Tywin remembered. "I did," he admitted. "I grew up with him. Watched him grow old," the Old Lion eased his joints, noticing the irony that he feels old himself. "He loved us. He was a good man, but a weak man. A weak man who nearly destroyed our house and name."

Arya stood and listened as she learned more of the fearsome Lord Tywin Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Hand of the King to her brother-in-law Daveth Baratheon. Intimidating as he was, Arya could see what made Tywin the kind of man and powerful lord he became known for. Before she could press any further, there was a knock at the door.

***KNOCK!***

***KNOCK!***

Twin turned to see Ser Amory Lorch entering the room, noticing he took only two steps before stopping in his tracks.

"Lord Tywin…" he muttered.

Before the Old Lion demanded why he came in, Amory suddenly fell to the floor with a loud thud. Both Tywin and Arya stood and went over to examine him – noticing a rather small dart sticking out the back of his neck. Arya stepped back in surprise, uncertain as to what had happened to Amory. Tywin, on the other hand, was livid; he knew what the circumstance entailed.

"Guard!" he yelled.

Several Lannister guards ran into the room – gasping in surprise at the sudden assassination occurring inside the Red Keep itself, especially in the Tower of the Hand. A few guards ran out to inform the City Watch and raise the alarm, thereby increasing security. Arya stepped back against the wall before taking a peak out the window, but looked again as she noticed someone unfamiliar to her looking back up at her. The individual wore Lannister armor, but didn't appear to be a man-at-arms in particular. Arya squinted her eyes to get a good look, she was able to determine the man had blue eyes and long brownish-red hair with white streaks interspersed throughout it.

"Girl, what are you doing standing there?" shouted one of the Lannister guards. "Go get Ser Bronn of the Blackwater! Now!"

Arya sprinted out of the Tower of the Hand's main chamber, taking several steps down the stairs and out into the open. Upon catching her breath, Arya looked up to see the same man she saw earlier leaning against the corner of a nearby alleyway looking at her.

"Valar Morghulis (All men must die). A girl has questions," he said simply.

Arya had raised her guard, suspecting the individual as hostile and dangerous; luckily she kept Needle hidden within her sleeves, but couldn't draw it out in public without attracting too much attention to herself. King Daveth might be away, but Queen Sansa would definitely hear of it. No, Arya couldn't bring herself to cause her elder sister any unnecessary distress, not while she's carrying her first child in her womb. No, this was something she'd have to handle herself.

"Who are you?" she finally asks suspiciously.

The unknown man stepped forth from the shadows. "You're called Arya Stark, sister to the Queen? This man has the honor to be Jaqen H'ghar, once of the free city of Lorath," he introduced himself.

_'How does he know my name? And why did he come all this way from Essos?'_  she looked puzzled. "Did you have something to do with that man up there? You're one of them. Why would you kill one of your own?"

"And you carry papers and fetch water for one of them," Jaqen countered. "Why is this right for you and wrong for me?"

Arya shook her head. "I didn't have a choice. You can just—"

"You did have a choice. I did. And here we are." Jaqen walked over to Arya, looking at her right in the eye. "A man has noticed your progress with the Water Dance, yet a man notices a girl says nothing. A girl keeps her mouth closed, keeps secrets. It is not for a man to spoil them."

Now she was getting really confused… and irritable. "Look, these words you say, t-they… you're not making any sense!"

Jaqen held up three fingers. "A man offers three."

"Three what?"

"The Red God takes what is his, lovely girl. And only death may pay for life. See this as an invitation to a greater purpose should a girl choose to feel so inclined."

"So, if I… name anyone, you'll have them killed?" Arya asked seeking clarification.

Jaqen nodded. "A man has said. Speak three names and the man will do the rest. Three lives I will give you – no more, no less, and we're done. The Red God has his due."

Now Arya wasn't exactly religious per se, following the teachings of the Old Gods of the Forest and Faith of the Seven; but if there was one thing she was more than certain of, it was if someone was willing to offer her something, something  _she_  wanted, it would be done. But to give Jaqen H'ghar, a total stranger and a foreigner, three names – who would be given the first?

"There's one person that's been giving my sister a lot trouble lately, someone who follows a certain someone's order."

Jaqen scrunched his face. "A man needs a name," he insisted.

_'Seven hells,'_  Arya groaned. "Uhh… ah, Kettleblack. Osney, was his name I think."

"That is enough," he replied rather pleased. "Go now, girl; best not to arouse suspicion when word of a dead man spreads."

Arya looks back at Jaqen and rushes off, leaving him to place on the Lannister helm and blend in with the crowd – masquerading as one of Tywin Lannister's personal guards arriving to keep order as well as to prevent any wandering eyes from peering into the Tower of the Hand any more than it is necessary. Arya knew that if Daveth was still in the capital, he wouldn't be pleased about any of this – nor would her mother or Sansa, but all she did it was for the sake of her family, the only family she has left since her father Eddard Stark passed away.

"In the winter we must protect ourselves, look out for one another," Arya tells herself quietly. "When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives."


	59. Let's Get This Over With

* * *

**Aboard the _King Robert's Hammer_ …**

* * *

King Daveth Baratheon and his men gathered around the war table, each observing a map detailing the Iron Islands' seven major islands in the chain and map marker pieces stationed on several key locations where they will launch their all-out invasion. This was it, the final confrontation between the mainlanders and the ironborn. Daveth knew this was a critical moment where his naval and ground forces would either seal the fate of House Greyjoy or be driven out. The Young Stag inhaled through his nose before exhaling; his mind was made up. There will be no retreat, no surrender. The plan was to be carried out accordingly.

"Scouts report that Balon Greyjoy's forces had holed up throughout the Iron Islands," spoke Rodrik Cassel. "What's left of the Iron Fleet should put up little resistance, but they're still formidable on open water. We need to get them on broken ground and put them at a disadvantage."

Greatjon Umber shook his head. "Bah! They'll offer heavy resistance either way. We need to get around them and have our fleets distract them from behind so our troops can move in. Less of a hassle and we''ll have plenty of manpower to spare when the day is done."

"To do that, we'll need to cover more ground," Robb studied the map. "The closest island is Harlaw, it's the second largest after Great Wyk and is both the wealthiest and most populous region."

_'Great Wyk…'_  thought Daveth, remembering the haunting images of his brutal torture at the hands of the ironborn so many years ago. He furrowed his brow, bringing his hand up to scratch his chin.

"Your Grace?" Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy broke his concentration.

Daveth shook his head. "It's nothing," he dismissed. He leaned forward, studying the map. "Lord Bolton, how many men do we have left from the last two battles?"

"After losing 10,000 men to free Moat Cailin plus another 8,000 to break the ironborn navy at sea, we have about 71,000 troops remaining," Roose informed the King. "Plenty enough to engulf the Iron Islands, though the battle will still be costly. If what Lord Umber suggests is accurate, then we will face heavy resistance once our soldiers land on solid ground."

Randyll spoke up. "There are no easy choices in war, Lord Bolton. You either march off to war with what you have or wait on the sidelines while our enemies gather strength. Here, we cannot afford to waste such valuable time. If we are to strike, it must be done now."

"Well then, we're all agreed on one thing," Stannis remarked, "that is to strike now before any of the ironborn could prepare a mounting defense. Balon Greyjoy and all who follow him must be destroyed or all of Westeros will feel the painful sting of defeat and humiliation for generations."

"Listen to yourself, Lord Stannis," Galbart Glover protested. "If you use force to wipe out tens of thousands, then how are we any better than the ironborn?"

Daveth pondered over the consult of his gathered generals. He agreed this campaign needed to be brought to a close soon, and it needed to be done now. But even the Young Stag knew that anything bold or reckless would possibly cost him more men in the long term. Running multiple scenarios in his mind, Daveth picked up a war piece in his hand, feeling the wooden structure brush against his fingertips.

"We're doing this to save lives, Lord Glover, to end the war, not for the pursuit of glory," he finally interjected. "I will mourn for the dead, yet I'll do whatever I must so that no one else has to suffer at the hands of their treachery again."

Robb felt uneasy about his brother-in-law's speech pattern, yet detected a notion of conflict in his voice as well. An inner struggle, no doubt. Before anyone could speak up, Daveth's squire Olyvar Frey ran into the tent.

"Your Grace!" he panted. "We've got ships approaching!"

All eyes turned to the Frey lad. "Under what banner?" the King asked. "What are their colors?"

"Are they ironborn?" Stannis demanded.

Olyvar shook his head. "No, my lord. It's not the Greyjoys. Their sigils are, uh… the sails are blue. With a, uh, white falcon and a crescent moon."

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "A white crescent moon and falcon on a blue field… That's the sigil of House Arryn."

"So the knights of the Vale finally decide to come to our aid after staying on the sidelines for far too long," Stannis remarked harshly. "If so, then they've come a bit late after choosing not to come to their King's aid when that prancing fool Renly took up arms."

"Don't dismiss them out of turn yet, Lord Stannis," Robb spoke up. "The knights of the Vale are some of the most capable soldiers in Westeros, trained to fight on ice or deep snow. Some are even taught to battle on steep cliffs and mountainous terrain. Yes, they've disappointed us by not aiding us when Renly rebelled, but they're here now."

As Robb and Stannis traded back and forth, Daveth stepped outside his war camp on his flagship and noticed the Arryn fleet sailing alongside  _King Robert's Hammer_. Upon observing them, Daveth counted at least a host of 20,000 Vale knights plus 10,000 cavalry. One of the Vale longships lowered a drawbridge to the deck of  _King Robert's Hammer_ , allowing a leading Vale lord to walk onto the royal flagship. Daveth recognized him right away, with grey hair, stale-grey eyes and bronze armor.

"Lord Royce!" Daveth exclaimed surprise. "How did you know where we were?"

Bronze Yohn lowered his head apologetically. "Apologies for the delay, Your Grace, but we were just informed of the situation by Queen Sansa. She believed you could use our help."

"Sansa sent you?"

"She did. Lord Baelish showed Lord Robin the contents of the letter you've sent across the nation and had him convince our lord to send any military aid in putting down this uprising."

_'Of course, Littlefinger has his own agenda; but Sansa… thank the Seven for that woman,'_  the Young Stag felt relief washing away his doubts. "Then are the knights of the Vale ready for the final push, Lord Royce?"

Yohn nodded. "They are, Your Grace."

"Then this battle is already over."

Both walked back inside, with many of the Northmen, River lords, Stormlanders and others noticing the arrival of the Vale knights. With the extra reinforcements now finally gathered, the battle plan could now begin.

"With the knights of the Vale now here, we have more than enough to strike a decisive blow," Robb said. "You see here?" he pointed to the map. "Right here, Harlaw is the closest island to us. Above it lie Orkmont, Blacktyde, Old Wyk and Great Wyk. That leaves Pyke, the capital of the Iron Islands itself."

"So what's it going to be?" Greatjon Umber rose up. "Do we hit them by land? Or by sea?"

Daveth looked at the map once more, gathering pieces of the puzzle before looking at his gathered generals again. "Lord Bolton, you and your men will take Harlaw. Take its wealth and resources. Ser Kevan Lannister and his men will provide back up while Lord Redwyne covers you by sea."

Roose stood stone-faced, but his arms folded. "Understood, Your Grace," he acknowledged. The King's great-uncle, Ser Kevan, nodded his head as well.

Daveth then placed the war piece of House Bolton, House Lannister and House Redwyne on strategic locations surrounding Harlaw before looking up again. "Lord Umber, you and Lord Stannis will both lead the vanguard on the largest island of Great Wyk. Have your forces make landfall at Pebbleton while Ser Vance Corbray circles around behind them with 10,000 cavalry to Sealskin Point. Ser Lucius, you take the  _Seaswift_  and  _Lionstar_  along with a dozen longships to provide cover by sea."

Stannis said nothing, Lucius and Vance nodded in acknowledgment, but it was Lord Greatjon Umber bellowed up a thunderous laughter. "My, my! We get the biggest piece of the pie! Not to worry, Your Grace, I've been making corpses out of men for thirty years. We'll give those fuckers a fight they'll never forget!" he exclaimed proudly, prompting several chuckles from those assembled.

Even Daveth himself could resist but grin at Greatjon Umber's bold confidence, before planting war pieces of House Umber, House Baratheon of Dragonstone and three of House Arryn on each strategic point covering Great Wyk. No doubt the battle would be beneficial since it was Lord Stannis Baratheon himself who subdued the largest island itself eleven years earlier and since he knows the island his insight would be of great aid to those who remain unfamiliar to the terrain.

"Ser Barristan Selmy," he turned to his Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, "you and your men will take Old Wyk as you've done before. Pave the way for our troops."

Barristan nodded. "It will be done, my boy."

Daveth nodded and placed a war piece on Old Wyk itself. "Lord Edmure and the Blackfish will subdue Saltcliffe. Lord Karstark, you and Lord Royce will take Orkmont. Lady Tarly, you and your son take Blacktyde."

Rickard Karstark, Edmure Tully, Brynden Tully, Yohn Royce, Randyll Tarly and Dickon Tarly nodded their heads in acknowledgment as Daveth set down more pieces on the war map. Before he could speak again, his squire spoke up.

"Pardon my manners, Your Grace, but where will you be?" Olyvar asked.

All eyes looked to the Young Stag. Even Robb Stark wanted to know the details as well. Fully composing himself, Daveth picked up the final puzzle piece bearing his sigil of House Baratheon, a gold stag on a black field – all of which are attached to wood. Trading glances with his generals, Daveth placed the wooden piece down onto the map.

"I will take 30,000 men and lay siege to Pyke," he answered.

Even the King's own uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister—who was standing next to his nephew—scrunched up his face as other lords looked surprise at the youth's response. "Your Grace," he spoke up, "that stronghold is the most heavily defended and the fighting will be the thickest. For all intents and purposes, you're going to need all the help you can get. I'm going with you."

Daveth looked at his uncle. "I wasn't going to object. The remaining Kingsguard will be coming with me."

Jaime nodded, pleased that his nephew was listening to him.

"Lord Glover, you lay siege to Ten Towers and rescue Robett. Find your brother, and bring him home."

Galbart nodded eager to fight. "It will be done, lad. House Glover does not abandon one of its own."

"Lady Mormont, you take the port town of Lordsport. Burn it to the ground."

Maege of Bear Island readied herself for battle, her daughters Dacey, Lyra and Jorelle all steeled themselves for the final battle. "We'll show them the fury of Bear Island," she proclaimed.

"Robb."

The Young Wolf turned to his brother-in-law.

"You'll be coming with me too. Bring that direwolf of yours as well."

Robb nodded, much to the growing discomfort of his own bannermen. The direwolf Grey Wind, meanwhile, stood up on his paws beside his master. Once they were absolutely certain of their positions and objectives, the gathering lords spent the next several minutes getting to their ships so they could begin the invasion of the Iron Islands.

Daveth looked at his men. "Listen up. You all know our purpose. Why we're here. The ironborn know we're coming. For some, this will be a one-way trip. For too long Balon Greyjoy and his lackeys ran rampant across the Seven Kingdoms unchecked. It's time we rectify that error. There can be no retreat, no surrender, no hesitation. We move forward at all cost. Now… let's win this war so we can all go home."

"For the King!"

"Long live the Oathkeeper!"

"The North remembers!"

Lord Greatjon Umber was the first to depart the war tent, accompanied by Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, Lady Maege Mormont, Patrek Mallister and the others followed suit. Daveth watched each of them leave, but stopped only a handful before they got on their ships to carry out their instructions.

"Jaime, Kevan, Ser Meryn, Lord Bolton, Lord Tarly, wait a moment," he called out. They all stopped in their tracks and turned to face the King. "Before you leave, I have a special assignment for each of you to carry out. Be sure to tell the other captains, and tell them to move the fleet into position."

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Queen Sansa Stark and her handmaiden Shae walked throughout the halls of the Red Keep with her sworn shields Ariyana Dayne and Brienne of Tarth, each of them exchanging gossip of the rumors surrounding the city as of late.

"There's been a disturbing report coming out of Flea Bottom lately," Sansa mused. "Some of them are… rather unsettling."

"What kind of reports, Your Grace?" asked Brienne.

"People being taken from their homes, shops raided and pillaged… What's worse is that no one is coming forward to give the City Watch or the Master of Laws any leads or a depiction of possible suspects."

Shae chimed in. "Perhaps they're too spook to speak out for fear they'd be next. I mean, survival does take paramount over nobility in King's Landing, my lady."

"Even still, there's got to be something that would give Prince Oberyn something to follow up on. These heinous acts have got to stop at some point."

"Given the current state of affairs, Your Grace," Ariyana spoke up, "it is easy for fear to grip the minds of the less fortunate. Once things have settled down, perhaps more will eventually come forward. But until then, it's wise to not be too pushy given your current 'condition'."

Sansa sighed wearily, massaging her pregnant belly. "I know I shouldn't worry too much, but I am the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. The lives of everyone in Westeros—rich and poor, great and small, nobles and commoners—are under my protection when King Daveth is away."

"An admirable trait, Your Grace. The common folk love you for it, but your enemies will certainly seek to take advantage of your nature. Don't let them."

Shae sought to change the subject to allay the concerns of her mistress. "Other than that, have you and the King thought of a name for the baby?" she asked curiously.

Sansa gave a small smile. "I, we… haven't thought that far ahead yet to be honest. We've been mostly concerned about readying ourselves for when I'm supposed to deliver."

"I could write down a list of names if you'd like, Your Grace."

"That would be considerate. What do you think, Shae? Will I have a boy or a girl?"

"I honestly don't know, Your Grace."

Sansa turned to Ariyana. "Ariyana, what do you think?"

"As your handmaiden suggested, even I don't know," she answered calmly and honestly. "But if I were to take a quick stab, given the amount of bastards King Robert sired, I… would guess that you would give birth to a Prince."

"Brienne?"

The maid of Tarth shifted a bit uncomfortably, but maintained her composure. "I fear that none of us can be certain on the baby's gender, Your Grace, but I suppose a Princess would brighten things up here."

_'Two completely different answers; Gods have mercy,'_  the Wolf Queen contemplated. Sansa then felt her stomach turn, making her stop midway and bring up a hand to her mouth. "Ugh," she groaned, "I will be relieved when this pregnancy is over."

Shae stood at Sansa's side, rubbing her back and helping her to her feet as they all resumed their walk. When they left the Red Keep and walked down Aegon's High Hill and Visenya's Hill before taking a different route past The Hook and onto the Street of Sisters before arriving to the Street of Flour. Whilst on the move, Sansa observed to see the gathering smallfolk stopping what they were doing when they noticed their new Queen walking among them.

"It's her! The Queen!" one of them said.

"Queen Sansa!"

"Hail the Queen!"

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace!" one of the children shouted.

Sansa politely waved at the commoners, noticing a small girl—possibly around the age of seven—holding out a single blue winter rose.

"For you, Your Grace," she offered.

_'A blue winter rose, like the ones Daveth used to give me two years ago,'_  Sansa smiled and leaned down to accept it. "Thank you, little one," she said sweetly.

The little girl returned the smile and ran off when she heard her mother calling her. Sansa watched on, taking notice of the recent changes her presence brought to the population of King's Landing. Throughout her stay in these past two years and her ascension as Queen Consort, Sansa made a name for herself which garnered the love of the people. Indeed, Queen Sansa was well-loved by the smallfolk, yet even the nobles had their own opinions of this new consort. While Daveth was away at war, Sansa assisted in managing the city with her husband's grandfather Lord Hand Tywin Lannister—although they did have their occasional disagreements and differing ideologies when it comes to ruling. Even so, the Old Lion still terrified Sansa and she kept her distance from him; yet more so she moved to keep an arm's length distance—preferably a longer one—from her scheming mother-in-law Cersei Lannister.

As she resumed the tour, there was a shouting coming from several distances.

"Get back here, boy!" one of the City Watch shouted.

Sansa perked her ears up, trying to indicate the direction the goldloack's shouts were coming from. Her guards, Ariyana and Brienne, gripped their handle of their swords in case if there were to be any hostile attempts. As Sansa finally saw a figure in the distance, she recognized it was Arya, her own sister, who was running.

Before the goldcloaks could catch her, Arya turned at her pursuers and back before bumping into Sansa.

"Oof!" they both grunted and stumbled backwards; Arya landed on her butt while Ariyana, Brienne and Shae caught Sansa and prevented her from falling over.

Arya groaned and shook her head as the City Watch finally caught up. "About time, boy. Now come with us. We have a lot of questions for you," one of them said.

Sansa looked at them, a look of fierceness in her eyes being made apparent. "Stand back, men. This is my sister, Arya Stark," she warned them.

The goldcloaks looked up from Arya and noticed Queen Sansa glaring at them; each of them looked back and forth at each other before the Wolf Queen took another step forward.

"Return to your barracks this instant and report to your superiors before I tell Ser Bronn of the Blackwater what you just did, and don't you  _DARE_  think of laying a hand on my sister ever again," she warned once more.

The two goldcloaks complained and begrudgingly turned away, making quite a scene for the smallfolk to watch and observe the commotion. Once they were out of sight, Sansa rubbed her stomach tenderly as Arya stood to her feet.

"I could've handled them," she complained while dusting herself off.

Sansa exasperatedly shook her head. "And gotten yourself into even more trouble. By the Gods, Arya, what were you thinking? Where have you been?" she questioned.

"I was running an errand, that's all. One of the goldcloaks thought I was someone else and chased after me."

"What for?"

Arya shrugged her shoulders. "How in Seven hells should I know, sister? Two years we've been living in this stinking city, and they still think I'm a boy! I'm a girl!"

"Pay no mind to it," she sighed. "I'll try to smooth things over with their commander and allay everyone's suspicions as I can. But tell me, Arya, where were you?"

"I already said—"

"I know what you said, but I know you better than most."

Before Arya could open her mouth to speak, their conversation was interrupted by a loud shriek and a thud.

***THUD!***

"AAAAAAAAHHH!" screamed one of the locals.

Sansa and Arya turned their heads sharply to the left, with Ariyana and Brienne finally unsheathing their swords as they all went to investigate. A large group of people had begun assembling in one of the town squares by the tens; if the commotion were to continue, it would number in the hundreds. Even the goldcloaks and several Lannister soldiers had a hard time dispersing the crowd.

"Get back!" one of the guards hollered.

"Back! All of you!"

Sansa and Arya pushed through, with Ariyana and Brienne not too far behind. Looking down, Sansa gasped at the sight of a dead man on the ground, his neck broken and spun around in a sickening fashion. The Wolf Queen held a hand to her mouth, mostly to keep herself from making a noise and to prevent herself from vomiting; it had been a long time since she had seen a corpse up close since the Tourney of the Hand. It wasn't long before Sansa noticed a familiar sigil on the man's cloak.

"A black kettle on a red field… House Kettleblack," she examined. "Osney?"

One of the Lannister guards saw the Queen. "Stand back, Your Grace. It's not safe here."

Sansa shook her head. "Inform Ser Bronn and Prince Oberyn. Tell them everything that's happened here. The rest of you, try to disperse the crowd as gently as possible. They needn't see more than they already have."

"At once, Your Grace," they nodded. "All right, get back you lots! Get back!"

As Brienne and Ariyana and Shae led Queen Sansa back to the Red Keep, Arya merely continued staring at the body of Osney Kettleblack before giving a small satisfying grin.

"You won't be tormenting my sister anymore," she said quietly. "Cersei'll definitely take this as a warning soon enough."

Looking upwards, Arya saw Jaqen H'ghar leaning against one of the battlements above her staring down at her. Lifting to his left hand and placing one finger on his cheek, Jaqen silently indicates to Arya that the first death has been paid and two more remain—names included. Arya nodded and took off to avoid further suspicion. King's Landing was getting dangerous and Arya felt the responsibility of having to protect her sister getting heavier, but did not waiver.

"Even if you hate me for it, I hope you'll understand why I did what I did, Sansa. Try to understand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Introducing at the last second, the Knights of the Vale! Led by Lord Yohn "Bronze Yohn" Royce, the Vale infantry, archers and cavalry are ready to make landfall in the final stages of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. And what do you think Daveth's secret correspondence with those he called forth will entail? Also, Jaqen makes the first strike on Arya's behalf. How will her closing dialogue affect her relationship with her royal sister? Thoughts? Let me know.


	60. Siege of Harlaw

* * *

**At Harlaw…**

* * *

Several hours had passed since Lord Roose Bolton and his bannermen stormed the beaches of Harlaw, the wealthiest archipelago of the Iron Islands. Reinforced by the combined Lannister–Glover men-at-arms and Redwynes ships, the Bolton army had gained a strong foothold in the region despite the loss of over 3,000 men. Beyond the horizon, Roose could see the Ten Towers keep, the seat of House Harlaw – dominion of Balon Greyjoy's wife's family. And according to the latest intel, they had been keeping Lord Galbart Glover's brother Robett prisoner. As such, Galbart himself had taken to the field in the hopes of rescuing his brother. Roose folded his arms as he watched from the hillside as the scene below him unfold: the screams and shouts, steel clashing against steal, and the fires and smokes that littered the battlefield as Bolton soldiers raised their banners in triumphant as the Harlaw banners depicting a silver scythe on a black field being torn down and burned. Riding up to his side was his bastard son Ramsay.

 

"The scouts report that Harridan Hill and Grey Garden have been put to the torch, father," Ramsay announced. "Locke and his men are already set on demolishing the Tower of Glimmering."

Roose remained stoic as ever. "That leaves only the Ten Towers to remain. We can expect Lord Rodrik Harlaw to mount a strong defense around his lands before our forces charge into his holdfast."

"If I may, father," the Bolton bastard reached into his pocket, "I believe I have a suggestion for inflicting warfare intimidation."

Roose looked at Ramsay as he pulled out a small piece of skin and three fingers hooked onto a chain around it. The Lord of the Dreadfort observed the flesh-ridden trinket before meeting his bastard son's gaze.

"Where did you get that?" he asked.

"A few dozen ironborn we've captured were… slow learners, but I've trained them, took some pieces off before making an example of them. The ironborn who saw it pissed themselves before running away with their tails between their legs. They didn't make it far though. Not that any of it matters in the end."

"You mean you flayed them."

"Only a few bits," Ramsay nodded as he smirked. "A few others, too, but like I said I made sure the ironborn got the message in the end. They're well aware of their fates now that we've come ashore."

"A choice of instilling psychological fear on the battlefield, but I did not give my consent for you to do so. Your lack of discretion with Bolton practices is becoming rather infamous as of late."

Ramsay frowned. "We've been flaying our enemies for a thousand years, father. The flayed man is on our banners!"

" _My_  banners, not yours," Roose calmly yet harshly corrected him. "You're not a Bolton, you're a Snow. I can only hope you've done nothing to Balon Greyjoy's surviving son and heir; we need him whole for the final push."

Ramsay felt his lips curl into an angry sneer upon being reminded of his bastard status. While most bastards content themselves with life, Ramsay had larger ambitions: he considers himself a true Bolton despite his birth and is highly resentful of his bastard status and will violently correct those who refer to him otherwise.

Lord Bolton stepped away, shaking his head. "The King's directive was clear: lay siege to the Iron Islands, one by one, and when the time comes… the Iron Islands are to be utterly destroyed, every holdfast torn down and its archipelagoes washed away beneath the waves. Our armies were to drain away any and all resources Harlaw had. Our prisoners were not your personal playthings."

"I  _know_  what the Oathkeeper's instructions entailed, father," Ramsay said. "Perhaps we should've demanded that Theon be—"

Roose let out a harsh sigh, moving to look Ramsay in the eyes once more. "I thought I made myself clear. I need Theon Greyjoy whole. I need his mind intact, meaning you are not to touch him."

Ramsay didn't back down. "Theon is an ironborn. Theon is our enemy. But once we're done here, I'll make sure he never betrays us."

The Lord of the Dreadfort disappointingly shook his head. "I placed far too much trust in you. Choose to act like a wild animal, and you will be treated as one."

Ramsay stiffened, swallowing anxiously. His confidence faded… only to be replaced by something else. Watching his father look away, Ramsay clenched his fists tightly as Galbart Glover rode up to Roose.

"The men have cleared the path to Ten Towers," Galbart reported.

Roose nodded. "And your brother?"

"He's still being held by those damned ironborn. Remember, Lord Bolton, Robett's safety is of paramount importance. For his sake, I'm taking my men in to save him. I'll need your men to provide cover whilst I break him out."

"You will have it. Go."

Galbart kicked the side of his horse and rode down the hill to join the charge as Bolton, Lannister and Glover men-at-arms laid siege to Ten Towers. Beyond the smoke and fires, Roose looked up and observed his surroundings; noticing the Redwyne fleets sailing around into their assigned strategic positions, Roose calmly turned to his bastard son.

"You want to prove yourself a Bolton?" he asked.

Ramsay nodded.

"Then send ravens to each of the captains aboard those ships. Tell Kevan Lannister now is the time to begin bombardment. Do this for our family, and I'll reconsider your position."

Ramsay smiled wickedly. Not only was his father giving him a second chance to prove himself, but surely there would be a reward for him as well. As he watched his father move his troops to begin loading the ships with valuable cargo and plunders they've procured from the island of Harlaw, Ramsay moved to two of his trusted lieutenants.

"Get this message to the King's great-uncle," he simply tells them. "Leave no tower left standing, and spare  _no one_."

* * *

**Inside the Ten Towers…**

* * *

Galbart Glover fought his way inside Ten Towers, the seat of House Harlaw in the attempt to locate and free his brother Robett from captivity. The battle to make it this far had been bloody as it was costly; whilst besieging the Ten Towers' gates, Galbart lost more than half of his men – more than previously expected.

***SLASH!***

***CLEAVE!***

***CLASH!***

One by one, Galbart slashed and cleaved his way through the halls of the Ten Towers before encountering Lord Rodrik "the Reader" Harlaw, Lord of Harlaw, and the surrounding areas of the archipelago as well as captain of the recently destroyed  _Sea Song_. An average-looking man, Rodrik has brown hair and eyes and a short, neat beard that is grey. Nicknamed "Rodrik the Reader" for his love of reading, uncommon amongst the ironborn – Rodrik was prepared for the inevitable outcome surrounding his lands.

"And so it has come to this," Rodrik spoke plainly. "It appears that my niece Yara was right after all. The fate of all ironborn are sealed, history and all. I advised King Balon not to rebel against Robert Baratheon the first time. I advised him not to take up arms against his son as well, but the krakens were always a proud, stubborn bunch."

"Enough!" Galbart roared. "Return my brother Robett, along with his family to me at once!"

Rodrik shook his head. "You already seek answers to questions in which you already know the outcome. But fine, both are in the cells of my hall."

"Then get them!"

"I'm afraid I simply cannot do that," he calmly said unsheathing his blade. "As weary as I am of this foolish rebellion, I fear I must perform my duty as an ironborn. Prepare yourself, mainlander."

_'So that's how it's going to be. Very well,'_  thought Galbart as he assumed the fighting stance.

For what seemed like a tense moment, both Glover and Harlaw felt the Ten Towers keep shake and tremble with such tremendous force.

***BAM!***

***CRASH!***

***RUMBLE!***

Galbart and Rodrik equally shook as they started clashing swords, exchanging blows whilst they noticed the stones around them giving way under constant pressure from the outside.

***POUNDING!***

***CLATTER!***

"Oof!" exclaimed Rodrik as Galbart kicked him back.

Galbart regained his balance as fireballs launched by trebuchets, scorpions and spitfires continued bombarding Ten Towers. Once they had a good short distance from one another, they both equally looked outside to see the Redwyne fleet bombarding Harlaw and its surroundings, the faint sounds of screams barely reaching their ears.

_'Such slaughter…'_  Galbart realized. No wonder why he hadn't seen any reinforcements from Roose Bolton or the Lannisters. They kept the Lord of Deepwood Motte hidden in the dark of their plot. Their real plot!

"Never take your eyes off the fight!" Rodrik pointed out as he charged again, Galbart barely able to deflect it in time to parry and counter.

Even as the fleet rained fireballs around them—destroying the settlements and demolishing holdfasts alike—both Glover and Harlaw fought fiercely as the Ten Towers itself was slowly being brought down around them.

"So you intend to kill us all," Rodrik realized. "If this is indeed my fate, then I'll take you down with me!"

"Not so long as a Glover continues to draw breath!" Galbart retorted.

Their blades clashing again, both were unprepared for the stone floor around them to start giving out.

"What the…?!" Rodrik exclaimed surprise as each stone was falling out of place below them. Before long, another trebuchet catapulted a bombardment on one of the Ten Towers foundations which caused the ground beneath Rodrik and Galbart to give way. Galbart was fortunate enough to jump back a bit before the Ten Towers floor fell out from beneath. Rodrik the Reader, however, wasn't able to escape as the stone his right foot stood on slipped out of place.

"DAMN YOU!" Rodrik screamed as he fell to his death, the stones of Ten Towers crumbling away to crush him on the waves below.

Galbart had no time to think about such tactics, he had to find his brother and his family and escape from Harlaw before they're crushed. Rushing down the main hall, through the library as more and more of Ten Towers infrastructure began crumbling away. Finally after a grueling search, Galbart found the passage to the cells and ran down the steps – albeit stumbling and slipping in the progress.

"Damn it!" he cursed. "The Boltons keep this up, this whole blasted keep will come crashing down all around us!"

As he trekked the final steps, Galbart finally arrived at the cells and saw his brother Robett, his sister-in-law Sybelle, and their children Gawen and Erena Glover behind bars.

"Robett!" Galbart called out.

Robett snapped his head upwards, still slightly disoriented and bruised at the treatment he suffered, recognizing his elder brother's voice.

"Brother!" he called out, gripping the iron bars.

"Uncle Galbart!" Gawen and Erena cried out in tears, happy to see him.

"By the Gods, bless you Galbart!" Sybelle praised.

"Please, uncle, get us out!"

Galbart looked around briefly. "Where are the keys?"

"Over there," Sybelle pointed towards the crushed jailer.

Galbart turned and ran over, grabbing the number of keys from the jailer as more stones crumbled around them. The Glover children squeaked as they moved away from where the objects fell. Sybelle held her children close as Robett motioned Galbart over once he finally acquired the keys he'd been looking for.

"Hand on, brother," Galbart reassured him. "I'm taking you all home."

"Hurry, uncle! Please!" Gawen pleaded.

Galbart fumbled around putting each key into the lock, growing increasingly frustrated whenever the chosen keys wouldn't pick the lock on the cells. More and more stones crumbled away, one momentarily landing mere inches near Robett's left leg. The Glovers exclaimed as Galbart searched through six more keys before finally inserting the last key into the lock. Turning the key towards the left, Galbart heard the lock machinations click.

***CLICK, CLUNK!***

***CREAK!***

Feeling the cells unlocking, Galbart and Robett swung the cell doors open – freeing the captive Glovers, allowing a brief reunion. Hugs and praises aside, the Glovers quickly turned to evacuate Ten Towers before the keep collapses on top of them. Rushing back up through the library and into the great hall, an unfortunate moment struck when, during the escape, a stone fell from above and struck Galbart on the head, briefly disorientating him. Robett looked over his shoulder.

"Brother!"

Before Galbart could recover, a heavy load of stone and wooden support beams came crashing down – pinning Galbart down as he spat blood across the beam.

"GRAAAAH!" he shouted in pain.

Robett and Sybelle ran towards the fallen Galbart, each trying desperately to lift the heavy fallen debris off of their family member. Gawen and Erena joined in, each straining trying to save their uncle.

"Nnnagh! It won't budge!" Robett strained.

Galbart gritted his teeth, shutting his eyes tight before opening them to see more of Ten Towers crumbling all around them.

"It's no use! Get out of here!" he called out, blood staining his teeth.

Robett shook his head. "The fu… No, brother! We're all going home to Deepwood Motte! That includes you!"

"Don't be… *cough, cough!* don't be foolish," Galbart spat out blood. "You know that I… I can't make it. The bloody debris is too heavy! If you stay here, you'll all be killed."

"But uncle—!"

"But nothing!" Galbart strained in agony, moving to take the signet ring of House Glover off his hand before grabbing Robett's hand and placing it into his. "Take this, Robett. Take your wife and children and go back to Deepwood Motte without me!"

Sybelle shook her head in disbelief. "But Galbart…!"

"Robett, I'm not going to let you all sacrifice yourselves for me," he continued – his voice slowly getting weaker. "You are Lord Glover now, brother. Return home to Deepwood Motte. Make our house proud. Make the North proud."

Robett felt his grip slipping away, a moment of sadness behind his eyes as his brother named him his successor in what appeared to be their final moments. The last time he might see his only sibling again. Begrudgingly curling his hand into a fist, Robett took the signet ring and held Galbart's hand.

"I won't forget you, brother," Robett swore.

Galbart nodded. "Nor I you. Now… now go. Go, go!"

"No, wait! Uncle, no!"

"Father! We have to go back! We can't leave him!"

Robett and Sybelle ignored the pleas of their children as they yanked them to their feet and made their escape as Ten Towers underwent enough bombarding pressure from the Redwyne fleet for the entire structure to come crumbling down. Watching his family escaping to safety, Galbart Glover never broke eye contact as the keep came crashing down.

_'May the Old Gods protect you. And remember that you are never alone. I will always be with you,'_  he thought as all became dark.

***THUD!***

***CRASH!***

Outside, Robett and Sybelle watched on from the Redwyne ship  _Queen's Thorn_  in disbelief as the keep that was once Ten Towers was utterly demolished, none of it remained standing. The island of Harlaw lit up the skies as fire and smoke devoured the archipelago. As the Glovers mourned the loss of their leader, Ramsay looked on as more of his lieutenants loaded the vessels with plundered wealth and resources they managed to procure during the siege. Feeling pleased with himself, Ramsay ignored the cries of the Glovers.

"A naked man has few secrets; a flayed man, none," he whispered silently.

Roose Bolton observed from the vessel with Kevan Lannister. "And so Harlaw has been completely destroyed," he concluded.

Kevan nodded. "That it has. I'll have the fleet set sail for Pyke to join the King and his men. We'll reinforce him in less than a day."

"Very well," the Lord of the Dreadfort nodded. "I'll have Ramsay escort the Glovers to Deepwood Motte. They'll need time to mourn the loss of their lord, after all."

Kevan nodded and left to inform the captain of their new directive. Roose, meanwhile, looked onto the horizon with Ramsay approaching his side.

"It's done, father. Harlaw is no more. Its wealth and resources are at our disposal."

"Distribute them among the men. They fought very hard today."

"We're to set to sail to Pyke now?" Ramsay asked.

"Have your best hunters ready," Roose informed him. "Hit the ironborn with a viciousness they've never seen before."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, here's a short chapter depicting the siege of Harlaw. It's not much, I know, each chapter is usually a bit longer – but I'm doing my best. Just want to get this over with as much as possible. Some collateral damage we've seen. A bit of a harsh tactics deployed by the royal forces to bombard the Iron Islands and butcher every ironborn they come across as noticed by Galbart, but we'll leave that to the readers to comment about such mindset.
> 
> What do you guys think of the short dialogue between Roose Bolton and Ramsay? Of Galbart Glover and Rodrik Harlaw? Were there any differences you might have seen in comparison to the TV series or the novels?


	61. Decimation of Old Wyk and Great Wyk

* * *

**At Old Wyk…**

* * *

Ser Barristan landed on the beach of Old Wyk with his men, intent on subduing the archipelago as he had done years before. He was aware of the surrounding terrain and knew his way around; every instruction he gave to his men, they followed to the letter. Reports had already come pouring in that the Tully forces subdued Saltcliffe, the Karstarks with Orkmont whilst the Tarlys took Blacktyde. And with the recent report of Harlaw's decimation, morale was high among the men. Barristan, meanwhile, felt uneasy about the list of casualties as well: Lord Rickard Karstark, although successful in his mission, ended up succumbing to the injuries sustained by enemy ground troops before Orkmont was bombarded by the fleet, reduced to a pile of rubble and set ablaze. Apparently every island mentioned met a similar fate, the old Kingsguard knight suspected. But why was he not informed?

"Incoming ironborn, Ser Barristan!" shouted a Baratheon infantryman.

 

Barristan took notice of the ironborn raiders charging at them, swords and axes in the air. Indeed, Old Wyk housed the skeletal remains of the legendary Nagga the Sea Dragon, a creative so massive it was said to have devoured massive krakens and drown islands whenever angered which was then ultimately slain by the mythical Grey King on the island's shores during the Dawn Age roughly 8,000 years ago—using its bones to build his hall and its fire to warm it. House Greyjoy of Pyke claimed decent from the Grey King. Since then it was considered a holy place held in high esteem among the ironborn; its local noble houses take pride in this and are fiercely devoted raiders.

Sacred or no, Barristan knew this invasion needed to be done. Unsheathing his sword Bastion, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard was already prepared for a vicious fight.

"To arms!" he ordered.

"For King Daveth!" his soldiers hollered.

"For justice!"

"Long live the Oathkeeper!"

The royal armies—Crownland, Stormland, Westerland and Reach—unsheathed their blades respectively and rushed to charge the enemy head-on, ready for battle. As the two armies collided, shouts and curses were hurled at each other; Barristan, despite his old age of 64 years, was still in fine physical condition as he clashed swords with the ironborn raiders in front of him, cutting down multiple men at once.

***SLASH!***

***CLEAVE!***

"Blurgh!" one of the raiders spurted blood from his mouth before slumping to the ground.

Indeed, the ironborn were offering fierce resistance against the mainland Westerosi invaders and were beginning to take down their fair share—though not quite as many as others would supposedly believe. So long as they were at sea the ironborn were ferocious warriors, but on land they were undisciplined: more brawlers than warriors, shouting and cursing, flailing and stabbing wildly, before them the ironborn were standing rather unhoned, untested, undisciplined… predictable, yet fierce and determined.

Through the gloom of night both armies traded blows, the sound of steel bouncing off each other and men die around them. The able-bodied would spurt their life's fluid in the air, and the scrawniest would be cleaved in half before each part fell to the ground, scattering guts and other body organs on the cold, unforgiving earthly ground beneath their feet. When Barristan first stormed Old Wyk during the First Greyjoy Rebellion, they landed near Nagga's hill and made swift work of the island. This time, however, the ironborn were more prepared.

"Old man!" shouted one of them.

Barristan turned and saw a rather large man, with thick arms and powerful figure calling him out. The ironborn was referred to as Andrik the Unsmilling, who was said to be the fiercest living warrior of the Iron Islands in service of Lord Dunstan "Bone Hand" Drumm and King Balon Greyjoy. Barristan knew Andrik was going to be a tough opponent, considering his physical size and reputation.

"Somehow we knew you'd come back here again," Andrik sized Barristan up. "But no more."

"Then let it be," Barristan replied. "In the name of King Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name… Let's end this."

"For the glory of King Balon!"

Both Andrik and Barristan rushed each other as their men continued trading blows; several of the royal forces managed to storm past their aggressors and rush the windy hills and cruel black mountains, climbing Nagga's hill—overwhelming the elderly Lord Dunstan Drumm and his personal guardsmen but not without sustaining casualties along the way; if it wasn't the ironborn raiders set on defending Old Wyk, then the environment around them would do the heavy lifting for them.

True to his name, Andrik was living up to his reputation and was giving Ser Barristan a rather hard time. Parrying and deflecting blows, Barristan found himself being pushed back as Andrik's blade came down hard against the Bastion. The old Kingsguard judged the Unsmiling to be the most battle-hardened and the most dangerous threat. Barristan recovered and spun away from Andrik's charging thrust and repositioned himself for battle before rushing to outflank him.

Andrik saw Barristan coming and met his attacks with the swing of his axe, batting the old man aside before smashing his axe into Ser Barristan's shoulder plate. Barristan grunted as the blaze pierced his armor before it could graze his flesh. Getting back onto his feet, Barristan parried the axe and went onto the offensive, swinging his blade before throwing Andrik off-balance just enough for him to plunge his blade into the ironborn's left shoulder.

"Ngah!" Andrik cried out in pain, his face contorting with fury as he swung his axe.

Barristan leapt backward to avoid the blow while cutting down any ironborn who tried to interfere in their fight, preventing enemy numbers from overwhelming him. The distraction apparently proved enough for Andrik to knock the old knight off-balance and throw him down to the ground. The unsmiling ironborn swung his axe in an overhead chop and brought it down, but Barristan had enough time to roll to the side and backhand Andrik away from him long enough to get back onto his feet in time to duck under one of the raiders thrust and roll away from another before cleaving his sword through his neck, decapitating him and spraying blood everywhere.

***RUMBLING!***

***BOOM!***

As the fighting around them intensified, a fierce thunderstorm had been brewing around the Iron Islands and had finally arrived. Rain battered both sides as the wind blew hard; ships of the Redwyne fleet rocked as the waves shook them. Andrik again kneed Barristan, but the old man responded with a backhand of his own. The Lord Commander was getting exhausted while Andrik still kept coming.

In a sudden burst of strength Ser Barristan threw his shoulder into Andrik, halting his advance and followed up with a gash to the ironborn raider's stomach. Andrik hissed as the knight headbutted him in the nose whilst bringing the tip of his blade to pierce his trachea.

"Incoming!" one of his men shouted.

***KABOOM!***

One of the spitfires and trebuchet's fireballs from the Royal Fleet already began bombarding the island of Old Wyk, sending dozens of ironborn flying backwards or smashing them beneath their massive weight if the fires did not burn them alive first. The ironborn scattered, the royal ground troops had already begun dashing for the rowboats. Ser Barristan watched the scene unfold as Andrik kicked him away. Raising himself up, Andrik raised his axe to swing once more, but before he could one of the fireballs came crashing down—directly landing on top of him. The force of the impact sent Ser Barristan backwards, knocking him on his back.

"Gah!" he exclaimed as he landed with a hard thud.

Momentarily stunned, Ser Barristan groaned as he watched the fleet propelling their deadly arsenals on Old Wyk, decimating Nagga's hill and triggering a rockslide as the hills started crumbling one after another. One of the Baratheon soldiers, en route to the ships, huddled towards Barristan and helped him to his feet.

"Come, Ser Barristan!" he shouted. "We have to get out of here!"

"Back to the boats!"

"To the boats!"

"Move it! Quickly!"

Ser Barristan's left arm was hurled across his infantryman's shoulder and limped his way towards the war galley  _Lady Lyanna_. As they climbed the ropes and set their foot on the deck before the ships sailed away, Ser Barristan watched on as the fleets pummeled Old Wyk and any remaining ironborn. The entire island was soon engulfed in flames and crumbling away, unable to endure any pressure being inflicted on them. Barristan briefly looked away, unable to watch.

"My boy," he quietly uttered to himself. "Stop this madness before it's too late… Don't lose yourself to this madness."

One of the crewmen approached him.

"What are our orders, ser?" he asked.

Barristan shook his head. "It is done. Have the men set sail to Pyke. His Grace King Daveth will need our help."

"Understood. All right, you lots! Get the sails down! We're marching for Pyke!"

_'And pray that we make it in time,'_  Barristan thought, thinking of the boy his former squire used to be. He had to save Daveth again; not just from the ironborn, but from himself if he could.

* * *

**At Great Wyk…**

* * *

The battle on the largest of the Iron Islands was brought to an end after hours of non-stop fighting. Pebbleton had been subdued, Downdelving, Crow Spike Keep and Hammerhorn were completely destroyed. On the shores stood the red priestess Melisandre and Lord Stannis Baratheon, watching as dozens of ironborn captives were strapped to wooden poles as straws of hay were laid beneath them.

 

"Lord of Light, hear us now," Melisandre prayed. "Accept these tokens of our faith, my lord, and lead us from the darkness. Cleanse their souls with your fire and that its light may lead our way."

Among those strapped were Lords Gorold Goodbrother, Meldred Merlyn and the Spar. Each of them strained and thrashed against the ropes as they watched Dragonstone Baratheon troops held lit torches in their hands.

"Curse you, mainlanders!" yelled Gorold.

"The Drowned God drown you and your men!" shouted the Spar.

The Dragonstone Baratheon men-at-arms watched on as the straw beneath their feet was lit.

"Lord of Light, show us the way!" they chanted. "Lord of Light, defend us!"

Meldred felt the heat of the flames at his feet. "Wait until His Grace King Balon Greyjoy punishes you all for your insolence!"

"The kraken will ensnare all in its grasps!"

"May the Drowned God drown you all beneath the waves!"

Melisandre simply ignored their protests, shouts and curses. "Lead us from the darkness. Lord of Light, show us the way. Lord of Light, protect us," she continued, "for the night is dark and full of terrors."

***CRACKLING!***

"AAaaaaahHHH!" the captive ironborn screamed as the flames crackled before ensnaring them.

Stannis Baratheon stood and watched as his prisoners were burned alive despite the raging storm around him. He had already lost more than half of his forces obliterating one side of Great Wyk whilst his northern counterpart Lord Greatjon Umber and the knights of the Vale led by Ser Vance Corbray subdued the rest. Ser Lucius Blackmyre was already cleaning shop, but turned around to complete the other half. Stannis knew it wouldn't be long now. Although his firsthand insight was helpful, they still suffered heavy casualties.

"Have the men ready to sail," he ordered. "We march to Pyke."

Davos was still rattled at what he just saw. "My lord," he spoke up, "are you sure it was right? Burning men alive instead of simply putting a sword in them? Why make it slow and painful instead of quick and painless?"

Melisandre chimed in. "Fear not, Ser Davos. The Lord of Light only wishes to cleanse the sinners of their souls, not inflict pain and torment. To convert and remind the heathens that our God is the one true God, and all men must serve."

"He is not  _my_  God," he spun around before redirecting his attention towards Stannis. "My lord, if the King finds out what's happened here—"

"What's done is done, Ser Davos," Stannis interrupted. "Men die all the same. Who cares how we employ our methods? Besides, the ironborn are savage infidels. They worshipped some mythical underwater sea god of their fathers and ancestors before them for thousands of years."

"But what will King Daveth say about—"

"I already made myself clear."

As they climbed aboard the  _Fury_ , they sailed off to Pyke and watched from a distance as the  _Lionstar_  and other longships and war galleys began levelling the rest of Great Wyk. A hard serious man and grinding his teeth regularly, Stannis asked for his right-hand man.

"What of our northern allies?"

Davos shook his head. "Lord Umber and his men succeeded in subduing the other major strongholds, but…"

"'But'?"

"Last we heard, the ironborn overwhelmed Lord Umber and his men before our ships could move into position. Ser Corbray and the knights of the Vale were lucky enough to escape the carnage, though their losses were rather light than ours."

Stannis frowned, fixing his singed leather cape around his shoulder. "They still came into this war rather late."

"But they came here now at the Queen's request. Surely that mishap can be overlooked just this once—"

"The Lord of Light punishes those who do not heed his call," Melisandre chimed in. "But in the end, death by fire is the purest death."

"You've no intention of turning on our allies, hmm? I'm sure the King will voice his disapproval rather loudly."

"All men must serve, ser Onion Knight."

"And who would they serve when they are all burnt to a crisp?" he inquired almost daringly. "I do not judge people for the gods they worship, and if I did I would've thrown you in the sea long before you ever set foot on Dragonstone."

Melisandre merely smiled. "I am not your enemy. We offer tokens to the Lord of Light and punish the infidels. Friend or foe, our God lights our way. Take your son, for instance, when he—"

Davos snarled angrily. "You will  _not_  speak of Matthos that way!" he spat.

"What I told him before the battle at sea was true," she continued. "Death by fire is the purest death."

At that, Davos snapped at the continuous death of his son Matthos. Whirling around, the Onion Knight reached into his sleeve and drew a knife, shocking all present. Rushing to stab Melisandre, Stannis's guards held him back and struggled to restrain him.

"This woman is evil!" Davos cursed. "She's the mother of demons!"

Stannis observed his right-hand man's outburst. "Throw him in the brig," he ordered.

"She will destroy us all! The King will hear of this!"

Melisandre watched calmly as Davos was led to the deck below. "You've chosen the darkness, Ser Davos. And you intend to pollute the King's mind with your heresy. But I will pray for you, for your salvation."

Stannis turned back to the sea, obviously intent on maintaining the present course.

"My lord?" Ser Imry Florent approached.

"Continue to Pyke. We have a war to end."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather long time, but Old Wyk and Great Wyk are done for. Next chapter will include the final confrontation between Daveth Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy. No doubt Pyke will be heavily defended. The royal forces have lost a lot of men, but so have the ironborn. What do you guys think will happen when the Young Stag confronts the Kraken King face-to-face again after so many years? What will go through Daveth's mind? Thoughts? Let me know.


	62. Battle of Pyke

* * *

**At Pyke…**

* * *

 

The decisive battle on the shores of Pyke was intensifying as the storms battered the mainland, thunderbolts shooting across the skies and torrential downpour drenched the faces of men. Several towers were being torn down as the archipelago was being bombarded by the royal fleet; even so, the ironborn were putting up a fierce resistance as the mainland armies rushed ashore.

Leading the vanguard was King Daveth Baratheon, surrounded by his Kingsguards Ser Meryn Trant and his uncle Ser Jaime Lannister and accompanied by his squire Olyvar Frey with legions of his best troops. As his armies cut their way through the center, Daveth was in a very precarious position: ever since he was forced to discard his armor during his fight against Victarion Greyjoy in the open water, the Young Stag's body was left unprotected and rendered vulnerable to any oncoming attack. As such, his Kingsguard acted primarily as his best defense against the ironborn. Even despite being at a personal disadvantage, Daveth held his own as he parried and slashed the raiders in front of him.

"Don't stop! Keep up the pressure!" he barked orders to his men. "Give the enemy no quarter!"

Ser Meryn and his squad cut through the ironborn, though he lost a few of his men. The royal army was pushing their advance towards the castle of Pyke, the ancient stronghold standing on a cliff and the seat of House Greyjoy where King Balon Greyjoy himself resided. The castle had been eroded by the sea leaving the towers standing on mere stone stacks – its towers connected by swaying rope bridges. Such a route would be disastrous for any seeking to cross it; large groups would have to cross one at a time unless they face the risk of the rope bridges snapping under the strain.

Following the distinctive clues of repressed memories during his captivity being brought to the surface, Daveth recognized which pathway his men would need to take if they were to ever breach the gates of Pyke and bring the kraken king to justice. To do that, however, they had to swat aside the 6,000 ironborn infantry/axemen, javelineers and kraken guards standing in their way. Leading a force of over 30,000 men, however, Daveth's armies engulfed almost anything that stood in their way – with the losses of 2,000 being relatively minor in comparison to the enemy.

Daveth ducked sideways as 10 kraken guards in front of him swung their blades, missing as Ser Jaime and Ser Meryn parried and shoved their blades in their flesh. The Young Stag thrusted his sword Stormbinger forward, driving the Valyrian steel blade into his nearest adversary's mouth and out the back. More axemen and infantrymen moved to strike the vulnerable young King, but a timely intervention prevented them from reaching their target; not from one of Daveth's Kingsguard, but from a much larger, muscled older yet bloodied northerner.

Robb Stark, who after finishing off two assailants with Grey Wind, immediately recognized him. "Lord Umber!" he called out.

Lord Greatjon Umber, having survived the siege of Great Wyk, chuckled boisterously. "Heh, glad to see me, boy? It'll take more than a few 'scratches' to take  _me_  down!" he bellowed proudly.

Lady Maege Mormont, along with her daughters Dacey and Alysane, arrived not long after to join the fray.

"Lordsport has been set ablaze, Your Grace!" Dacey reported as she bashed an ironborn's skull with her mace.

"Our allies are en route to secure the other areas of Pyke," informed Alysane.

Maege bashed in an ironborn's skull with her mace. "Got to at least save some of the fun for us!"

Daveth shook his head, punching and backhanding a kraken guard. Ignoring the chatter, the Young Stag pushed forward with his personal guard as more reinforcements arrived to surround Pyke by land and sea. As the fighting further intensified the more they advanced, the worse the storms brewed and darkened the skies. The terrain was started to get slippery as the dirt beneath Daveth's feet had turned to mud, making the slopes slippery. As the Royal and Redywne Fleets moved into position around the island of Pyke, some surrounding the castle of Pyke itself, Daveth felt himself being kicked backwards by an ironborn attacker. The Young Stag slid down the hill before regaining his balance in time to block the blade; a thunderbolt above shot across the skies, revealing the attacker as Yara Greyjoy.

"This is as far as you go, mainlander!" Yara held the blade firm in her grasp.

Daveth scoffed. "Huh! That's what your brother Maron Greyjoy said the last time we were here and look what happened to him. Now, get out of my way!" he said before forcibly shoving Yara backwards.

The ironborn princess quickly regained her footing before going toe-to-toe with the Young Stag, each side readying themselves for battle. Daveth felt increasingly frustrated as his pathway towards the castle of Pyke was being blocked. Before either combatant could make a move, however, Robb Stark and Grey Wind intervened.

 

"Robb?"

"I'll hold her off," he told him. "Go breach the main gate!"

Daveth nodded. "Don't even think about dying on me, Stark."

"Wouldn't think about it, Your Grace."

As Daveth turned to storm the gates, Yara moved to intercept but her pathway was being blocked by Robb Stark as he unsheathed his blade. Grey Wind circled the ironborn princess, the direwolf bearing its teeth and snarling loudly.

"I will be your opponent," he declared.

Yara held her ground. "You're not who I'm after, Stark, but get in my way and you'll be sent to a watery grave!" she cried out.

The battle behind him began raging between Robb and Yara, Daveth turned to see that the gates were almost within sight. The rain was making the hill slippery and steep, but will and determination kept propelling him forward as he brushed strands of hair out of his face and wiped the raindrops from his brow. Rushing to catch up with the King was Meryn and Jaime, each of them carving a path while also trying to protect him. Jaime Lannister could see the naval captains off in the distance; noticing thunderbolts shooting above him, the Kingslayer used his blade to reflect the electricity's light off of his weapon to give the signal.

"That's the one!" exclaimed seaman Jarvius. "That's the signal!"

"All right, you lots! Begin loading the catapults!" Captain Trytas Redwyne shouted. "Bring down the walls!"

The ships began loading the catapults, flaming arrows and burning pitch flew through the air and began hitting the walls and watchtowers surrounding Pyke. As the stone structures were beginning to crumble away, Daveth could see further ahead that their pathway was being hindered once more.

"Damn it!" he cursed.

Jaime shook his head. "I told you, nephew. They're bitter, angry little people."

"We can't let Balon Greyjoy get away!"

"He knows he has nowhere left to run," Meryn replied. "He knows this is a last stand."

"And yet he merely intends to slow us down while he prepares. Not this time!"

"Don't worry about them," a voice caught their attention.

As the trio turned, Greatjon Umber arrived with his men. Battered, bloodied and exhausted, the Lord of Last Hearth gathered his weary troops as they moved in front.

"I'll take care of them. Go, Your Grace, and shove that fancy sword up Balon Greyjoy's dunghole!" Greatjon bellowed.

Daveth noticed his condition. "In the state you're in, Lord Umber? You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Don't worry about him, Your Grace," Ser Barristan announced his presence. "We'll provide cover and ensure everyone gets out of this in one piece."

"Ser Barristan!"

The old Lord Commander of the Kinsguard readied himself for battle. "We'll have more time to talk once this battle is over. I promise. Go!"

Daveth nodded understandingly, though he hated leaving his mentor behind. But he couldn't allow himself to hesitate at this time. Motioning for his Kingsguard knights and his squire Olyvar, the party hurled themselves forward as both sides collided in battle. Swords clashed and shouts and curses were thrown, Greatjon Umber and Barristan Selmy remained behind to keep the pressure off of them; off shore, the Iron Throne's combined naval forces resumed bombarding the walls as well as targeting any ironborn impeding the path forward.

The Young Stag briefly turned his head away as the catapults' impact shot stone debris everywhere before resuming the march. His forces finally reached the great stone bridge that led to Pyke's Great Keep before noticing arrows being shot down at them. Several of Daveth's men were hit in several areas as others immediately raised their shields to cover themselves. Due to the stone walkway being narrow, it was difficult to move around.

"The pathway is too narrow for our troops to maneuver, Your Grace!" shouted Olyvar, still holding his shield up. "At this rate, the ironborn will pick us off! We've got to get off this bridge!"

"I know that! Men, form a wall!"

Whatever soldiers remained moved to shift their position on the narrow walkway—the outside ranks in front stood shoulder-to-shoulder and brought their shields around one another in a dense vertical position so they abut or overlap while the inside ranks held their shields over their heads, forming a tortoise-like defense. Albeit their movements were sluggish, the arrows being rained down on them from above provided enough protection for them to cross the bridge before finally breaking off.

"Ser Meryn," Ser Jaime turned to his fellow comrade, "have your men take out those archers!"

Meryn stared at the upper battlements. "Nock arrows!"

"Nock arrows!" one of the men shouted.

An estimated 30 archers lined up, drawing their bows and arrows whilst dodging enemy fire. Although most were fortunate to evade, some were hit in their arms, shoulders, legs or received an instant killshot with a blow to the eye or center of the head.

"Draw!"

***STRETCHING!***

"Draw!"

Ser Meryn still kept his shield up, but an ironborn javelineer was lucky enough to move around the upper battlements to throw one of his javelins and hit its mark: the speed and impact force of the javelin tossed at the royal forces gathering outside the gatehouse separating the high bride from the Great Keep pierced through Ser Meryn's helm—nearly decapitating him in the progress, causing instant death. As his body quickly slumped over the edge and into the sea below, Daveth snarled.

"Ironborn bastards," he cursed. "Loose!"

On que, the royal archers returned fire at the gatehouse, hitting one of the javelineers that took out Ser Meryn but the walls of Pyke provided additional protection for the ironborn to hide behind. Looking down at the ships, the Young Stag noticed one of the catapults aboard the royal longships was being redirected at the wall itself. Daveth knew what was coming next.

"Get back! Now!" he shouted to his men.

***BOOM!***

***BAM!***

With only a few moments to spare, Daveth and his men were able to retreat to a distance far enough as the royal fleets' siege-ships hurled burning pitches and boulders at the southernmost tower.

* * *

**Inside the Great Keep…**

* * *

Inside the castle, rising from the Salt Throne and looking out the window to observe the action below, the kraken King Balon Greyjoy curled his fingers into a frustrating ball and snarled at the devastation. The new southern tower made of a paler grey stone was gradually bring brought down as Balon remembered how Daveth's late father King Robert I Baratheon demolished the previous tower during the First Greyjoy Rebellion before breaching the walls and storming the castle. His personal kraken guards looked worried.

"It's only a matter of time before they storm the castle," one of them pointed out. "Perhaps we should sound the retreat?"

"And go where?" another replied. "The mainlander's fleets wrecked our own, got us surrounded by land and sea… What else are we supposed to do?"

Balon did not appear to be deterred. "Such cowardice, the lot of you."

"B-but our men are dying out there… There's too many—"

"What is dead may never die," he interrupted. "Let that stag boy and his wolf come. I will deal with them myself."

"Wha—?"

At that point, Balon got in his guardsmen's faces. "Our men fight and die because  _I_  command it.  _I_ will not have my captains disobey and question my orders and abandon their posts out of fear! Now, move aside and obey your King!"

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

The torrential downpour continued and heavy winds blew harder as the storm had gradually worsened. As the southernmost tower eventually came crumbling down due to the amount of force and pressure, the ironborn above the battlements stationed around it fell too. Others, meanwhile, scattered off as more arrows and burning pitches from the Iron Throne's fleets. Daveth watched on as the gatehouse separating the Great Keep from the stone bride he and his men walked over to get this far was reduced to rubble. Ser Jaime looked up and took note of pile of stones they could use to crawl up the battlements and pick off the remaining ironborn still atop the battlements.

"Our men can use those stones to climb the walls, keep the ironborn off our backs until the rest of our forces can join us. Our ships have stopped firing for now, but given a few minutes they will send all of Pyke to the darkest depths of the ocean."

Daveth noticed. "Then perhaps we should wrap this up before we end up getting caught in it as well."

Olyvar Frey picked up his sword and brushed stone dust off his leather lamellar. "The rest of us will stay here and guard your rear flank from any remaining ironborn should they try to pursue you, Your Grace."

"Olyvar…"

"Don't worry about us, Your Grace. We made it this far because of you, and we'll see it through to the end. At any cost."

The Young Stag was proud of his squire; for such a short amount of time Olyvar Frey had learned a great deal of combat and the art of warfare so quickly. Anyone else it would've taken them years to attain full knighthood, but seeing Olyvar's performance throughout the war firsthand Daveth estimated it would only be a matter of time before he's fully ready for the honor. Once they return to King's Landing, the King will finish up the remaining necessities. But for now, they had a job to do.

"Go, Your Grace," Olyvar continued. "We'll hold them off."

"Understood," Daveth nodded. "Coming, uncle?"

Jaime brandished his sword. "I'm right behind you, nephew."

Olyvar and the remaining squad of soldiers began climbing the stone ruins to get to the battlements above. From on high, the rest of the royal forces—Crownlands, Stormlands, Westerlands, Reach, Riverlands, Vale and the North—were wrapping up their business below and were beginning their ascent to Pyke itself. Upon storming the gates of Pyke's Great Keep, Daveth and Jaime were flanked by the castle's kraken guard and swung their swords at the attackers. Both of them were able to take out their fair share before resuming the march up the nearest steps – killing dozens of remaining infantrymen and kraken guards. As Daveth pulled Stormbringer from one of the corpses, he looked up the steps and saw the man he was looking for climbing the last steps onto another floor.

"Balon Greyjoy…" he mused.

Jaime noticed. "He won't get far. Go, get him. I'll finish cleaning things up here."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Besides, you really don't need me protecting you from this now, do we?"

Daveth sarcastically rolled his eyes and humorously shook his head at his uncle's attempt at a joke. Besides, Daveth knew his uncle Jaime Lannister was one of the best swordsmen Westeros had ever seen. If anyone could clear out any unsavory elements at Pyke, it would be him. Deciding to trust his uncle's judgment, Daveth took off in pursuit of Balon Greyjoy whilst Jaime turned to clear out the remaining kraken guards and prevent them from attacking from behind.

Climbing the steps to one of the rope bridges outside, King Daveth I Baratheon gripped Stormbringer in his right hand and came face-to-face with King Balon Greyjoy for the first time in 11 years. During his captivity, Daveth was only a child with Balon and others looking down at him while they beat him, abused him and tortured him by various means. Of course, that was then. This was now. Now Daveth stood straight, standing over him and ignored the beating rain and heavy winds smacking his face. Balon Greyjoy, meanwhile, still retained his gaunt hard face, hard black eyes with long grey hair sticking to his face.

 

"Daveth Baratheon."

"Balon Greyjoy."

The winds blew, shaking the rope bridge with the two of them on it. Both swung with the bridge, each of them never breaking eye contact.

"Somehow I expected you'd find your way here. Just like your stag father before you. But the last time I saw you, you were but a frightened little boy; crying out in the endless void."

"I remember. The only difference between you and me now is I've grown stronger since then. You, on the other hand, have not changed at all."

Balon crept closer to Daveth; Daveth crept closer to Balon.

"You can mock our traditions all you like, boy," Balon retorted, "but in the end all that remains is a broken boy pretending to be a man who wants to play at war."

"Except that I've been fighting on the frontlines throughout this war while you hid behinds your walls, given your old age," Daveth countered; his voice speaking with the calm of total certainty. "I've mastered my fears a long time ago, readying myself for this day. 11 years of careful planning and now things have come full circle."

"And how is that, pray tell?"

"Your two poorly planned invasions, Balon Greyjoy, followed by overwhelming defeats and heavy losses. I see that now you have learned nothing after the first failed rebellion. You focused only on the short-term achievements, overestimated your forces and gravely underestimated your opponents… again. The only difference between me and my father, King Robert, is that I'm here to finish the job. Something he should've done a long time ago."

When it becomes clear to Balon that Daveth intends to kill him, the Kraken King glared at the Young Stag. Surprisingly, Daveth loosened his grip on Stormbringer and put it back in its sheath.

"You intend to kill me without a weapon?" Balon inquired. "You really have lost your mind in the storm."

Daveth shook his head. "Wrong again, old man," he clenched his fists. "I want you to feel every ounce of pain and suffering you… and  _him_  inflicted on me for every moment you kept me imprisoned on this barren wasteland. Your words will disappear. Your name will disappear, the Iron Islands will disappear. All memory of you will disappear. This… is for Lannisport!"

With the intents clear, Balon Greyjoy quickly drew out a knife and slashed Daveth across the face.

"Gah!" he exclaimed.

Despite being older and fragile, Balon was quicker than he appeared. Before he could swing his arm back around, Daveth quickly grabbed Balon's wrist with his left hand and punched him in the jaw with his right. Stumbling backwards across the rickety rope bridge, Balon moved to get back up before being flattened by another punch from Daveth. He doesn't hear or listen to the royal fleets hurling stones and burning pitches at Pyke. Balon felt himself being forced back by his much younger adversary, who maintains a strong focus as he goes. The Kraken King swings his arm, knife in hand, only for Daveth's arm to be raised to deflect Balon's arm again – its point an inch from where he struck earlier before sending his fist again catches him upside the head and brought him down to knee him in the gut.

"Oof!" Balon grunted, wrestling with Daveth as the Young Stag maintained a firm grip on his wrist.

Ignoring the blood trickling down from the gash on his right cheek, the Young Stag deployed every advantage he could possibly muster. Rearing his head backwards, Daveth quickly came down with a hard headbutt – causing the Kraken King to stumble back and nearly fall over the ledge before Daveth grabbed his collar and spun around to throw him back into the halls of the Great Keep.

The 58-year-old Balon Greyjoy landed on his back with a hard thud from the force of the throw. Daveth walked back inside, his eyes focused on his target – cheek bleeding, but each of his fists curled tight into a ball. Balon rose, but Daveth kicked him in the chest – knocking him back down. Before Balon made an attempt to stand up again, Daveth got on top of him before he can, sitting on his chest whilst placing his knees on Balon's arms and beats down on him with his fists and forearms so hard he broke his nose and jaw. With each blow he lands, Daveth has every intention of methodically beating Balon Greyjoy to death.

_"What is dead may never die."_

The memories of the ironborn raid at Lannisport flooded his thoughts.

_"Fitting tributes to the Drowned God, wouldn't you say? Or… to me since I am the Drowned God?"_

The Young Stag gritted his teeth as he held his opponent down and continued assaulting him.

_"This one's a worthy prize. We'll take him back with us to the Iron Islands. We'll be having lots of fun!"_

After Daveth threw the twenty-ninth punch to the bloodied Balon's face, one of the royal longships from outside pummeling Pyke with boulders and burning pitches made contact with the stone walls; a projectile rattles the walls of Pyke, sending stone debris flying at the two combatants. However, one piece of stone debris flew through the air and hit Daveth's cheek, breaking his concentration.

"Gah!" he flinched.

Feeling his opponent loosen his grip slightly, Balon slipped one leg free to press his foot against Daveth's chest and kicked him off of him. The Young Stag stumbled backward, shaking his head as Balon got back up on his feet with knife in hand. Raising his arm up, Balon brought it down but Daveth still retained enough awareness to turn to his right before swinging back around to backhand him with his left.

As Balon stumbled, Daveth got back to his feet.

"Your words will disappear," he glared. "Your name will disappear, all memory of you will disappear…"

As more pieces of Pyke castle started crumbling away, Balon sluggishly moved to stab Daveth but his thrust was easily caught when the Young Stag against grabbed his wrist and punched him in the face. Balon stumbled backwards a bit, his sight starting to blurry as Daveth picked up a nearby stone before slamming it on Balon's head as hard as he could.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

After three consecutive blows, blood poured from the top of Balon Greyjoy's head. The front of his brow appeared to be indented, implying either a depressed of compound skull fracture as the Kraken King was knocked dizzy, finally dropping his knife.

Panting wearily, Daveth slowly picked up Balon's knife and raised his arm to deliver the final strike before another explosion from the outside rocked Pyke, both stumbling as the ground around them caved out as each stone dropped to the ocean below. Daveth moved to head to a distance, but the ground of the Great Keep finally gave way – collapsing below. As the motionlessly dazed King Balon Greyjoy fell to his demise at the Sunset Sea, Daveth leapt as he reached his hand outward to grab the nearest ledge, his fingers barely grasping it in time as he held on tightly. The Young Stag's legs dangled as the waves crashed against the shores, rain and wind battered the exhausted King as he strained to pull himself upwards.

However, due to having repeatedly physically assaulting his opponent, Daveth's knuckles were bloodied, bruised and sore. It made hanging onto the ledge much more difficult as he slowly felt his grip slipping away. He shut his eyes tight, trying to pull himself up – but his hands were hurting as the adrenaline rushing through his body finally wore off.

_'No! Not like this!'_  he thought.

Before all seemed to be lost, a voice called out to him as Pyke was getting demolished around him.

"Daveth!"

Daveth quickly opened his eyes and looked up. Ser Barristan Selmy, having fought his way through the island, extended his hand to him. Accompanying him were Jaime Lannister, Lucius Blackmyre, Olyvar Frey and Robb Stark.

"Quickly! Take my hand!" Barristan called out.

It was a life or death situation. If there was a moment to act, now was the opportune time lest the Iron Islands would be his grave. Releasing one hand whilst retaining a hold with the other, Daveth reached out to grasp Barristan's.

"I… can't reach!" he strained despite the pain in his hands.

Barristan moved to reach further, as did Robb and Jaime – but even then the attempts at rescuing Daveth were getting slimmer by the second. The castle islands of Pyke were coming down all around them; and if they didn't get him out of there fast enough then they would all perish. Daveth tried again, but his left hand was slipping – mostly due to the rain and the pain in his knuckles.

_"Come back home to me."_

_"Then wait for me, little dove. Wait for me, and I will return to you."_

The Young Stag remembered the promise he had made almost a month ago to Sansa. The request she made,  _her_  pleas and tears. And the dream he had during his recovery after the liberation of Moat Cailin… all of it made it heart wrenching at the thought of never seeing his beloved wife again.

_'Sansa… No! I made a promise! And I intend TO KEEP IT!'_  he internally screamed.

Fueled by a renewed sense of purpose, Daveth once again threw his hand up – ignoring the pain and stretched as he possible could, his fingers within reach of Ser Barristan's. After a strenuous effort, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard ultimately gripped Daveth's palm in his own and with the assistance of Jaime, Olyvar, Lucius and Robb, managed to pull the Young Stag to safety.

"Thank the Gods we made it," Barristan panted wearily.

Daveth nodded his head, but still knew they were all in danger.

"This place will soon be at the bottom of the Sunset Sea at any moment!" Robb pointed out. "We have to go! Now!"

"Everyone, back to the boats!" shouted Jaime.

The small group ran down the steps of Pyke and into the main hall, avoiding falling debris as they possibly could before making it to the outside. Below they could see the rest of their allies at the bottom near the ruins of Lordsport, climbing aboard their ships and calling out to them in a panicked state.

"Hurry up!"

"Come on! You can make it!"

Behind them what was once the ancient stronghold of Pyke gradually crumbled away upon being struck with numerous boulders and burning pitches from the Redwyne fleets. Daveth took one quick glance and returned his gaze forward, never looking back again. One by one, each man slid down the muddy hill and rushed past the enflamed holdfasts and corpses littering the land. Nearby, two rowboats rocked against the waves. It definitely took quite some time, but they managed to get to the boats to undo the ropes before a thunderous rumble caught their attention.

Due to the decimation of Pyke and its location being on a steep cliff, the naval bombardment had inadvertently triggered a rockslide.

"Get these ropes undone and get to the fleet!" Barristan shouted.

"We're trying!" Olyvar hurriedly worked to undo the knots.

Robb was fidgeting with the ropes, but heard a howl in the distance.

***AROOOOO!***

Looking over his shoulder, Robb saw his direwolf Grey Wind running to its master as quickly as it could – avoiding the rockslides.

"Come, Grey Wind!" he called out to his canine companion. "Come, boy! You can make it!"

Holding out his hand, Grey Wind whined as the direwolf narrowly missed getting pinned by a boulder and trapped if not obstructed by obstacles in its path. Digging its claws into the ground, Grey Wind leapt as far as it could – landing near Robb's side before the rockslide could ultimately claim the beast's life.

Grey Wind shoved his nuzzle against Robb's chest, whining and wagging its tail happily at being reunited with its master.

"Good boy!" Robb petted him. "Come on! Get in!"

Grey Wind jumped aboard the rowboat with Robb and Olyvar in tow. Daveth, Barristan, Jaime and Lucius, meanwhile, hopped into the other. All began rowing away from the devastated port town as the devastation of Pyke and the rest of the Iron Islands appeared to be accomplished, albeit at the cost of so many lives to make it possible. As Lucius paddled, Daveth felt a wave of exhaustion sweep over him – having been physically spent and emotionally burned out. Sure, he got his desire for vengeance… but something didn't sit quite right with him.

"Ser Barristan…" he called out tiredly, only enough for the old man to hear him.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"I… I'm sorry."

Barristan looked surprised, yet slightly concerned as well. "For what?"

"For failing you…"

The old Kingsguard knight lowered his head, hinting that he detected a slight sense of guilt in his former squire's voice; for allowing his anger to cause the deaths of so many people—most of them his own men. But Barristan also understood that sometimes people—commoners, nobles, even kings—had to learn things the hard way if they were to ever be more successful in their lives. He knew Daveth since he was a boy and trained him in the art of combat, hoping to instill in him a sense of nobility and honor as best he could. When he heard the apology, Barristan knew that Daveth had somehow made a mistake. Hopefully, he's still a fast learner as he was during his prodigy years. But for now, that can wait as they rowed to the flagship  _King Robert's Hammer_.

* * *

**Aboard the _King Robert's Hammer_ …**

* * *

Cheers and shouts of victory rang aboard the royal flagship as Olyvar, Lucius, Jaime, Robb and King Daveth were brought to the upper deck. The Iron Throne's combined ground and naval forces—Lannister, Baratheon, Stark, Tully, Tyrell, etc.—each shared a mug of beer and celebratory music.

"We won!"

"Shows those ironborn whose boss!"

"Long live the Oathkeeper!"

"Seven blessings on His Grace!"

"Hail King Daveth!"

Daveth was still feeling burned-out, not caring about the heaps of praise being thrown at his feet. He was tired and wanted nothing more than to go home. Perhaps some time away from warfare and violence would clear his head, aided by the ride back would ease his thoughts. His clothes were wet and torn, his knuckles were still bloody and sore, the cut on his cheek still burned. The Young Stag opted not to join in the celebration, but instead leaned against the wall as each ship set sail to their destination.

"Your Grace," Robb approached.

Daveth wearily opened his eyes and shook his head. "You don't have to call me that whenever we're in private."

"What happened back there…"

"I know, Robb. I know. The Iron Islands have been completely destroyed, their reaving and pillaging days along the western coasts will not happen again. The Old Way of paying the iron price is over."

"Did you order the ironborn be put to the sword?"

"I did."

"Why?"

Daveth shook his head. "Half of it was out of duty, a reminder of what happens should anyone rebel against the crown."

Robb wasn't going to let this go. "And the other half?" he asked.

"Fueled by a grudge for what they did to me in the past. Is that what you wanted to hear? Because there's nothing you told me that I haven't told myself, Robb."

"Everyone makes a mistake at some point in their lives."

"That they do."

Quite soon filled the upper deck between the two childhood friends, albeit it was a chilly one in the beginning – there appeared to be a sense of spiritual connection between the two, suspecting it was the officially reparation of their friendship.

"What will you do now?" Robb asked.

Daveth looked at Robb. "Now that the war is over, I will be returning to King's Landing. Clear my head if I can. I've been away from home for too long. You?"

"Same. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell," he answered. "And I need to find Bran and Rickon. If what Theon told us at Moat Cailin was true…"

"Find them, Robb. Bring them home."

"I will."

"And… I believe that congratulations are in order. Waking up one morning, knowing your first kid is on the way—"

Robb blinked. "Wha…? How did…?"

Daveth pointed to Lord Greatjon Umber, how boisterously laughed and raised his mug in the air, retelling his story to the crewmen of the battles he fought at Great Wyk and the announcement of House Stark's next heir. Robb shrugged his shoulders and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Of course he of all people would say that," he mused.

"You Northmen are a bit straight forward and honest."

Robb rolled his eyes. "Maybe, but last I heard the Seven Kingdoms is expecting an heir too."

"Word travels fast, I see."

"Boy or girl?"

"I don't know."

Both started to find the back-and-forth banter to be rather amusing, each the Young Stag and Young Wolf recognizing that they're still friends despite the tirade at Moat Cailin some time ago. But all that ceased when a commotion grew audibly louder.

"Get here, you bitch!" one of the Northmen hollered.

Sounds of chains clanked, snapping both Daveth and Robb out it before realizing what was going on. As they stepped forward, Daveth saw Locke and Ramsay Snow throwing to the King's feet a chained up yet bruised Yara Greyjoy and her uncle Aeron Greyjoy, a Drowned Man clergyman.

"I believe a 'thank you' is in order, Your Grace," Locke said proud of himself.

Lucius chimed in. "Mind your tongue when you're speaking to the King, lad!" he reprimanded him.

Before Locke could reply, Roose Bolton interfered. "What he meant to say was that during Lord Stark's confrontation with Princess Yara, my soldiers seized the opportunity to spring an ambush and capture her. Once that was done, we figured it would be best to decide her fate should we succeed."

"And so you have," Daveth mused, "but I'm afraid that it's come to my attention your best hunter Locke lied to me."

Locke froze as all eyes were soon locked on him. "Wh—"

"Back when we took back Moat Cailin from the ironborn, you told me that Theon Greyjoy blew up some of my ships at the coastline."

"I did. That's the truth!"

"And yet not long after, my informants in the North brought word that you and your men infiltrated Winterfell, killed all the ravens and imprisoned most of its denizens to keep them quiet and attempted to place all of the blame on someone else, namely the ironborn who never go that far to the center of the North itself."

"What?!" Robb was furious.

Locke felt increasing pressure being heaped on him. "Lies! Whatever you heard, all of it was lies!" he protested.

"It is a crime to lie to a King," Daveth countered. "But what's even worse is that you still continue to do it. Want to know how I know?"

"I'm not—!"

"Please, I'm from King's Landing. I've learned the political intrigues of the royal court from its best players. And I can tell whenever a man is lying and when he is telling the truth. You, Locke, are a terrible liar. Consider your desires officially rescinded."

Roose Bolton folded his arms in disappointment; Ramsay tried to hide his concern about what fate held in store for him.

"Your bannermen has disappointed me, Lord Bolton. Perhaps a lesson needs to be in order."

Deciding to need a scapegoat, Roose sighed. "He will be punished at the Dreadfort, Your Grace."

Locke's eyes widened at his liege lord disavowing him and tossing him aside. With a snap of his fingers, several House Bolton men-at-arms physically restrained Locke who offered heavy resistance.

"No! You can't do this to me!" he yelled.

"I just did," Daveth replied as Locke was led away before turning his sights on Yara. "And you…"

"You've already killed us all, so you might as well get it over with," she rudely interrupted.

Daveth felt temptation creep in his mind, but he shook his head. "If you intend to make yourself a martyr, then you're sadly mistaken."

Ser Barristan approached. "Her crimes cannot be ignored, Your Grace, I understand that. We all do. But killing her now accomplishes nothing in the long run."

Robb raised an eyebrow. "Then what do you propose we do, Ser Barristan? She's attacked the North, our home, brutalized our brothers and sisters, and ruined the lives of our families. We cannot just ignore that."

"Let her stand trial, at least. A fair trial in King's Landing," Barristan suggested. "We'll meet out justice for all who've been affected by this crisis, including the North. We'll show everyone that there's always a better way."

Greatjon Umber was livid. "After what the ironborn put us through? Haven't we endured enough at their hands already?! I—"

Daveth cut him off. "You've made objections known, Lord Umber. Quite loudly, I might add," he spoke firmly before calming himself down. "But Ser Barristan is right about this: if we kill her now then we are no better than the ironborn who sowed the seeds of chaos and discord throughout the realm. I will decide Yara Greyjoy's fate…  _after_  she's been given a fair trial in King's Landing."

Yara looked confused, but didn't care. Most of the Northmen couldn't believe their ears, but Ser Barristan breathed a sigh of relief and nodded his head in approval.

"I will send word once the verdict's been made," he continued. "But for now, return to your strongholds, my lords. Gather the crops for the upcoming winter. If the maesters are right, it will be the coldest and longest winter we've ever seen."

Most of the northerners grumbled and went to their respective ships, already planning on returning home in the North. Robb bid one last farewell and left with Grey Wind aboard the  _Wolfsbane_. Daveth, meanwhile, returned his gaze to the horizons of the Sunset Sea – ignoring the rain which is slowly dying down. Watching the moonlight glistening across the waves, he turned to Ser Barristan.

"Have the captain set sail for King's Landing, Ser Barristan," Daveth said. "It's going to be quite a voyage home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I suppose that's that. It's been a very long time. Few days, give or take. This chapter marks the permanent end of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion and… a change in Daveth Baratheon? What do you guys believe such things would affect future chapters and his interaction with other characters? Remain the same or slightly altered? Take your guess. And how will his decisions be remembered by those who know him best? Thoughts? Let me know.


	63. The King's Return

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Queen Sansa Stark sat by her window, threading her sewing needle through the silk linens in her palm – continuing her delicate line of exquisite embroidery, something she was always good at since she was a little girl. It had been over three months since King Daveth left the capital, and still no word from the Master of Whisperers yet; the feeling of uncertainty was almost nerve-wracking. True to her word, Sansa remained by the window waiting for her husband's return. Letting the stitches slip between her fingers for just a moment, Sansa rubbed her now four-month pregnant belly, massaging it gently. It had grown noticeably larger since she was last examined, though no one dared say anything.

Her sister, Arya Stark, made her way into the room. Bold as always, she snuck up behind her elder royal sister before giving her a rather unwelcomed surprise.

"Raarh!" she shook her.

"Aaah!" Sansa shrieked. "Arya! You know I hate it when you do that!"

Arya laughed at Sansa's complaints, even as Lady popped her head up to see what the disturbance was before settling down. Their mother, Catelyn, on the other hand, was not amused.

"Arya, how many times have I told you no more scaring your sister?" she scolded.

The young she-wolf shrugged her shoulders. "Just trying to lighten the mood, mother. Sansa's been sitting by this window sewing her stitching needle for hours now."

"Arya, apologize to your sister."

She frowned at her mother's continued scolding and glanced over to Sansa's direction. Once Sansa removed her hand over her heart and regained her composure, Shae went to work fixing her mistress's hair – brushing it until it shone brightly when exposed to direct sunlight. But before Arya could open her mouth to say anything, there was a knock on their door.

***KNOCK!***

***KNOCK!***

"Excuse me, Your Grace, but Lord Varys is here to see you. Says it's urgent," the royal steward announced.

Sansa looked at the door. "Show him in," she called out.

When the door had finally opened, Varys stepped inside – his hands tucked within his golden-orange sleeves. Arya and Catelyn didn't trust the eunuch, but Sansa was reliant on the Spider for information if she had questions that needed answers. Varys agreed to utilize his network of spies and relay any information he could gather in his web… for the people's sake.

"Thank you for granting me an audience, Your Grace," he said smiling. "May I?"

Sansa nodded and waved her hand, permitting Varys to sit in the nearest chair. The Master of Whisperers eased himself down into a seat and put his hands together.

"My little birds bring word from the north. The war is over."

"And how do you know of this?" Catelyn asked.

"Knowledge is my trade, my lady. I recall telling you this back at one of Littlefinger's brothels."

"Please, Lord Varys," Sansa pleaded, "tell me: what of my husband? What news do you bring about the King, Daveth?"

"Such a dutiful wife," Varys sympathized. "My little birds tell me that His Grace sustained his fair share of injuries, but the Oathkeeper remains strong and emerged victorious on the battlefield once more. Not a bad feat for one so young. He is bound for the capital as we speak."

Sansa breathed a sigh of relief, a heavy weight lifted off her shoulders knowing that Daveth is alright. Even better now that she knows he's coming home; Varys, on the other hand, wasn't done yet.

"But I believe the damage has already been done."

Sansa looked back at Varys, confused. "What do you mean?"

"It pains me to tell you this, Your Grace, but you should know…" he continued speaking softly, "the Iron Islands have been completely destroyed. With the exception of three, there are no ironborn left. And now the rains weep o'er his hall with no one there to hear."

Sansa, Arya and Catelyn were wide-eyed with shock at this stunning revelation. Sure, they had long known that Daveth Baratheon suffered greatly when the ironborn took him captive after raiding Lannisport during the First Greyjoy Rebellion, but neither of them had ever expected Daveth's anger to be so great that he would be capable of inflicting such a level of destruction. Sansa felt her heart drop, her face filled with worry about the possibility of what her husband might be turning into. Varys sensed this, and placed a gentle hand on hers.

"Fear not, Your Grace," Varys reassured Sansa, "had Ser Barristan Selmy not been there, the Oathkeeper would have gone through with the deed. As I said, there are three ironborn remaining: Theon Greyjoy, his sister Yara Greyjoy, and their uncle Aeron Greyjoy. He plans to put the latter two on trial for their crimes at Ser Barristan's behest."

_'Then… all is not lost, Gods be merciful,'_  Sansa hoped upon learning that Daveth stayed his hand. "Does that mean…?" she suggested.

"If you're asking whether or not the King can be saved from himself, I do not know, Your Grace. But the people believe that if anyone could pull it off, it's you. You are the Queen, and the people know the King adores his Queen. Daveth will need you now more than ever."

Sansa her chest tightening, her thoughts still wrapped around of Daveth destroying the Iron Islands; but if what Varys suggested was true, then a ray of light presented itself within the darkness. She would have a rather long, strenuous task with assisting in the progress of healing such a deep psychological scar.

Arya chimed in. "But why Theon? He was father's ward!"

Varys turned to face her. "Theon Greyjoy had been providing the King and Robb Stark with information that proved vital to ending the war. If he can be persuaded in the right fashion, the King just might be lenient to your friend. The Red Keep shelters two sorts of people, little she-wolf: those who are loyal to the realm, and those loyal to themselves. Your sister and the King have brought peace and prosperity to the realm, and the people love them both for it. I would hate to see any 'unsavory' element shatter it."

A question for the philosophers, one might add. Arya felt as if her head was spinning at arguing an ideological debate, but before anyone could chime in any further – the sound of ringing church bells and exclamations from the small folk throughout the city of King's Landing reached the Red Keep.

***DING DONG!***

***DING DONG!***

***CHEERS!***

***APPLAUSE!***

Sansa placed her stitching down and rose from her seat, looking out the window as she saw numerous people gathering. It was hard to get a good view from on high, considering the position of the Red Keep. Arya and Catelyn observed this as well, as did Shae. Lady perked her ears up and looked at her mistress. Varys, meanwhile, remained seated.

"Ah, perfect timing," the eunuch mused. "The King has returned."

"Lady, stay!"

Lady whined with golden eyes, sad and knowing, as Sansa didn't even bother waiting for any responses since she immediately darted out of the room to welcome Daveth home after being separated from one another for months. Despite the cries of her sister, mother and handmaiden, she had to see him. Sure her feet were aching with each step she took and the occasional bout of nausea struck without warning, but Sansa Stark was determined to reach her destination. Ariyana Dayne and Brienne of Tarth observed the pace the Queen was taking, and followed suit – one reason was to protect her, but the other was to ensure she didn't harm herself given her pregnancy.

"Your Grace, please slow down!" Brienne called out to her.

"Steady yourself, Your Grace," Ariyana hollered.

Sansa ignored her sworn shields and made her way down the steps of Maegor's Holdfast, across the serpentine steps through the middle bailey before entering into the outer yard with Brienne and Ariyana close behind her. Momentarily stopping due to nausea and sore feet, Sansa regained her composure with her head up before finally finding her way into the throne room to see all the applauding lords and ladies of the royal court welcoming the return of their King and his Kingsguard knights.

"Lords and ladies of the court," the royal steward announced, "all rise in the presence of Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."

Sansa quietly panted, having worn herself out from rushing to the Great Hall. Ariyana and Brienne finally caught up, and observed as Daveth ride into the throne room with Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Jaime Lannister alongside him. Sansa couldn't believe her eyes when she saw Daveth's rich black velvet torn with shredded pieces of leather dangling off his attire, revealing some skin; his face had one or two bruises on the left cheek whilst the right bore a laceration with dried blood staining his cheek. Even the blue scarf Sansa gave Daveth was slightly torn as the linen cloth still clung to his neck. And judging by the look in his eyes, Sansa believed her husband to be tired and worn out even as his stone-faced expression made it visibly apparent.

The sound of chains clanking soon broke Sansa's concentration. Tilting her head sideways, the Wolf Queen noticed Jaime Lannister leading the prisoners Yara and Aeron Greyjoy into the throne room in chains before spotting Theon still tied up with ropes. Lucius held onto Theon closely as the men dismounted from their horses and stood before the assembled courtiers. Soon enough other members of Daveth's family members and the other Small Council members each stood in attendance.

"Long may he reign!" the courtiers echoed.

Daveth ignored their heaps of praise as he approached the steps, with Cersei, Tyrion and Tommen watching as the Young Stag climbed the last pedestal to reach the Iron Throne. Momentarily staring blankly at it, Daveth shook his head and turned to face the gathered assembly; drowning out the applause and cheers, Daveth briefly turned his gaze towards his uncle Jaime.

"Take them to the Black Cells, Ser Jaime," he instructed. "And keep a close eye on them. They don't get out, no one gets in."

Jaime said nothing and gave a hard yank on the chain, jerking Yara and Aeron forward as they were led to one of the levels of dungeons within the Red Keep. The Black Cells are normally reserved for prisoners accused of high crimes such as treason, completely dark with no possible light sources except when jailers enter with torches. Yara kept her dark eyes glued on the Young Stag, staring at him intensely before being jerked forward again. As the two were led away, Daveth returned his attention to his lords and sat down on the Iron Throne, ignoring the stinging wince from his healing scars. Standing beside him on his right was his grandfather and Hand of the King Lord Tywin Lannister, raised his hand with a courtesy so cold it was like the courtiers would freeze as the thunderous applause and cheering were immediately silenced. Sansa stepped towards the Iron Throne to stand at her husband's left side. Daveth was worn out, but he had a sworn duty to fulfill as King of the Seven Kingdoms. Once the murmurs died down and the room was filled with silence, he quietly inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled before opening his mouth to speak.

"Lords and ladies of the court," he begun, "after months of… strife and conflict, the Crown is pleased to announce that the war with the Iron Islands has come to an end. The traitor and usurper Balon Greyjoy and all who followed him have been brought to justice. Never again will any city residing along the western coast live in fear or be at risk to the ironborn's brutish tradition of reaving or plundering."

Sansa eyed her husband before noticing Cersei watching them both. The Wolf Queen broke eye contact as Daveth continued his speech.

"As a consequence for their past transgressions, we have determined that Yara Greyjoy and Aeron Greyjoy will stand trial within these chambers on the night of the harvest moon."

Cersei watched as her son briefly fell silent, his hands gripping the handle of the Iron Throne; his shoulders tensing up before relaxing. This was hard on him, but there was something deeper that even the Golden Lioness couldn't comprehend. If it was her sitting on the throne, she would have had them put to death right then and there. Which begs the question: what was holding Daveth back? What stayed his hand?

"This victory belongs to each of us, but we must also remember what it took to end this war."

Sansa began fidgeting her thumbs, intertwining her digits as Tywin observed his grandson – watching and paying attention to every detail.

"From Last Hearth to Highgarden, each of the constituent regions throughout the Seven Kingdoms once again demonstrated that if war teaches us anything it is that anything is possible when we work together. If we can put aside our differences and put down our grievances long enough, to truly come together as one, imagine what we can accomplish."

Hopeful murmurs began spreading throughout the court; each of the gathering lords and ladies turned to one another, gossiping about the royal declaration being told. Daveth paused for a moment, closing his eyes briefly as the voices of the past rang through his head.

_"_ _The path laid before you will always remain a constant struggle, and every day you will face obstacles. Yes, you may stumble or even stray from the path… but there are still people out there who care for you; who want to help you."_

_"No more must you grieve for us, my boy. Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go."_

_"You have such a long road ahead of you, Your Grace, and you must be prepared to face it. All our trust and faith is now on your hands. We know you'll do the right thing in the end. It is time."_

_"We'll always be with you."_

_"Set your eyes on the horizon."_

Daveth opened his eyes once more and stood from the Iron Throne to observe the assembly, his posture straightened and tall and his voice calm and filled with vigor and purpose.

"The road to recovery will take time, but we can rebuild what we have lost; our homes, our armies, our future… A future paid for by the noble sacrifices of all those who fought and died to make it so. And while we still have many challenges ahead of us, never forget that no matter where you're from, you are not alone. We will persevere, the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms will remain whole, and we will honor those who gave their lives to give us that future. Seven blessings to all."

"Seven blessings."

With that, Daveth looks to his left and right and motions for his family to follow him. The Young Stag makes his way out of the throne room, accompanied by Sansa, Cersei, Tywin, Tyrion, and Tommen. Sansa, initially filled with worry, was relieved after observing her husband rather closely. At first the Wolf Queen feared that the Second Greyjoy Rebellion would turn Daveth into someone she believed he wasn't, that his personal vendetta would consume whole and seal his fate; but Sansa listened to his words very closely to determine whether or not he was being truthful or deceitful.

As soon as they were certain they were at last alone, Tyrion was the first to speak up.

"That was very nice back there, nephew," the Imp said. "Moving, eloquent even."

Daveth sighed. "Please don't tell me you're going to start singing a song now."

"You wound me. Don't worry, I'm not that cruel."

"I'm just glad you're back home in one piece, brother," Tommen piped.

"As am I, Tommen," the elder Baratheon replied. "The last three months have been rather strenuous at best."

Cersei eyed him closely. "So tell me, son. You mentioned a trial. Why not simply punish them instead? I would have put them to the sword and be done with it."

Daveth glanced over his shoulder to look at his mother. "You really think having a crown gives you power? No. When your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire. When they go to their knees, however, you must help them back to their feet. Otherwise, no man will ever bend the knee. With the king's peace and the king's justice restored, the Greyjoys no longer have the strength or resources to resist us."

Cersei displayed a disappointing scowl while Lord Tywin studied his grandson in silence, gold flecks shining in his pale green eyes.

"So you say," she continued.

"You disapprove. Why?"

"The Greyjoys wronged you.  _Deeply_. You had them at your mercy, and you instead opted to put them on trial? What gave you that notion?"

Sansa decided to intervene. "I'm sure cutting off heads is very satisfying, mother-in-law, but that's not the way you get people to work together. Daveth is our King. And I'm sure he is doing what he thinks is best."

"Best for whom?" she challenged stiffly.

"My decision is final," Daveth retorted. "Yara and Aeron Greyjoy will stand trial, and I will not hear another word of it. Now, unless there's other… important…"

The Young Stag felt dizzy from a wave of exhaustion, shaking his head to wake himself. It had been a long day and the voyage back to King's Landing was even longer; he hadn't had enough time to rest properly before he had to give the royal announcement just moments earlier. Grand Maester Pycelle and Varys watched on at this development. As Sansa, Tyrion and Tommen all moved to check on Daveth, Tywin Lannister noticed his grandson's change in posture.

"The King is tired. See him to his chambers," he said coolly. "And fetch him a new pair of clothes if possible."

Cersei immediately moved to Daveth, but Sansa beat her mother-in-law to him first. The Golden Lioness again scowled and frowned deeply at this act. How dare this younger, more beautiful woman lay a hand on what was rightfully hers? Tommen traded glances back and forth, and hesitantly stepped aside once he was reassured his eldest brother would be properly taken care of. The sun was going down, after all; now would be the appropriate time for Daveth to get some rest. The Hand of the King and the other Small Council members could take some of the burden off the Young Stag's shoulders for a while longer until he's well enough.

"Grand Maester, perhaps some Essence of Nightshade to help him sleep."

Pycelle nodded and left to his chambers to prepare some nightshade for the exhausted young King. Daveth brought his hand to cover his face. Was he so tired that he kept his inner thoughts suppressed for so long? It wasn't healthy, but there was only so much he could possibly take. Daveth nonetheless remained aware of his limitations, and did not argue with his grandfather's instructions as the party departed to their respective chambers.

Only Cersei remained behind, her emerald-green eyes glued to the Stark Queen and her firstborn. It was faint, but a hidden animosity began to brew inside them.

* * *

**In Daveth's chambers…**

* * *

Nightfall had come; the stars shown bright in the skies above and the lit candles filled the houses across the city below. When the door had opened, King Daveth I Baratheon wearily slinked his way into the royal bedchamber with his wife Queen Sansa Stark in tow. In his hands contained a small cup containing dreamwine diluted with a single drop of Essence of Nightshade concocted by Grand Maester Pycelle to help King Daveth sleep. He looked as he was in need of it, given how exhausted he looked in front of everyone.

Sansa closed the door behind her as Daveth set the small vial down and removed his ruined shirt. The Wolf Queen noticed in the moonlight the healed but visible scars bearing across her husband's body aside from the one she saw on his left cheek: the one on his right shoulder, left pectoral on his torso and the one by his external abdominal oblique. Sansa had never seen her husband receiving such wounds like that since the Battle of Blackwater Bay. She was relieved that he was all right, but she still had questions.

"Husband," she spoke sweetly as she disrobed and changed into her nightgown.

Daveth looked over his shoulder. "Yes, my Queen?"

"Theon… you don't plan on having him executed, are you?"

"Seven hells, you northerners are so stubborn…" he groaned. "If I was, he would've been moved to the Black Cells on the third level. But instead Theon Greyjoy was confined to the second level where highborn captives and valuable hostages are kept."

"I know he's the son of a traitor who rebelled against the crown twice, but… but Theon was still my father's ward. If he helped you as you said he did, then perhaps some leniency could be given to him?"

"Even if I did, your friend would live under constant scrutiny in the North. His sister attacked Deepwood Motte, his uncle seized Moat Cailin…"

"I'm not asking you to forgive him for what his family did," Sansa shook her head. "All I ask of you is that you find it in your heart to spare Theon's life. Please."

Daveth sighed, looked at the cup in his hand and sat on the edge of the bed before looking back at her. "What would you have me do then?" he asked.

Sansa glanced at the bed, thinking long and hard about suggesting an alternative compromise that would hopefully convince her husband to spare Theon Greyjoy's life without provoking either Daveth or the North. Either way, someone was going to get criticized. Briefly biting her lower lip and rubbing her pregnant belly, Sansa looked back at Daveth – her eyes shining a crystal clear blue in the moonlight.

"Do you remember the tale of Harren the Black?" she asked.

Daveth nodded. "Of course. Harren Hoare, the King of the Isles and the Rivers, built his castle Harrenhal in the Riverlands, the largest castle in all of Westeros designed to withstand an attack from the land before it was reduced to a blasted ruin by Aegon the Conqueror's dragon Balerion. A million men could've marched on Harrenhal and a million men would've been repelled every time. But an attack from the air with dragonfire? Not so much. Harren and all of his sons were roasted alive, rendering House Hoare extinct. Why do you ask?"

"Ever since the War of Conquest, Harrenhal these days was said to be haunted. No other lord or lady would even set foot in those ruins. Its lands and incomes remained intact, but none dared live there," Sansa explained. "With the Iron Islands… uh, gone… why not apply the same method as Aegon Targaryen did? Theon won't be permitted on the island itself, of course, but perhaps I could convince Theon to bend the knee and in exchange you give him his life. 'When your enemies defy you, you must serve them steel and fire. When they go to their knees, however, you must help them back to their feet. Otherwise, no man will ever bend the knee.' That's what you said earlier this morning, remember?"

Daveth listened closely at what Sansa suggested. Placing his hand under his chin, the Young Stag ignored the slow exhaustion and the vial in his other hand as he contemplated his wife's suggestion. Spare Theon, convince him to swear an oath of fealty and give House Greyjoy a chance at redemption… or execute him and remove the threat entirely? The Young Stag exhaled as he looked back to the Wolf Queen.

"You thought of it yourself?"

Sansa nodded.

"I'll think about it after the trial is concluded," he said as he gulped down the vial.

Daveth's face twisted as his taste buds made contact with the concoction.

"Ack!" he spat in disgust.

Sansa was pleased, implying that Daveth would take her thoughts into consideration. She lifted up the bedsheets and climbed into bed as her husband joined her. Daveth's head was slowly spinning, probably due to the dreamwine mixed with the Essence of Nightshade. He could feel Sansa's warm body pressing up against him, her left arm wrapping around his chest – brushing the tip of her fingers across his scars. Once the candles were blown out, Sansa reached up to plant a kiss on Daveth's cheek.

"Sleep easy, my love," she murmured into his neck. "We're here for you, me and the baby."

Daveth felt his eyelids getting heavy as he turned his head sideways, his nose resting atop Sansa's head. Sleep soon took him and his thoughts drifted into a deep sleep, relaxed at his wife's warm presence and comforting, gentle touch on him… and the feeling of her pregnant belly against his left arm.

_'Her hair smells nice…'_  he whispered groggily.


	64. Old and New Faces

* * *

**At Dragonstone…**

* * *

Lord Stannis Baratheon had returned to the island fortress of Dragonstone, having made the voyage back to his stronghold. The Lord of Dragonstone had a lot on his mind – with the recent decision to imprison his oldest and most trusted supporter, Ser Davos Seaworth, for attempting to assassinate Melisandre in full view of everyone around him and threatening to inform his nephew King Daveth I Baratheon of everything the red priestess had been doing; he felt indifferent to the Onion Knight's survival. Now having recently returned from war, Stannis ascended the steps in a nearby tower and already had chill reunion with his wife Lady Selyse of House Florent over the visitation of their only child.

_"You must keep away from such distractions,"_  Selyse said to dissuade Stannis, but was ignored when he retorted with  _"She's my daughter. I want to see her."_

Having won the argument, Stannis trekked the hallways to the nearest room where he heard singing from the other side of the door. Quietly opening it, Stannis looked upon a young 13-year-old girl lying in bed. His daughter and only living child, Shireen Baratheon, had long dark hair with blue eyes, inherited her father's square jutting jaw and her mother's large ears. Laying her head on a pillow, Shireen hummed a melody.

"The sea I know, I know; Oh, oh, oh," she sang. "The birds have scales; and the fish take wing. I know, I know; oh, oh, oh."

Stannis cleared his throat. "Shireen."

Tilting her head up, Shireen's smile was deep. "Father!" she exclaimed happily.

Jumping from her bed, the girl rushed to greet her father and embraced him tightly. Stannis looked down at his daughter, lifting his brow briefly and cleared his throat again. Shireen released her embrace, and stared up at him – her innocent, blue eyes meeting his.

"You've grown since the last time I saw you," he pointed out.

"Mother said you and cousin Daveth fought in a battle. The Second Greyjoy Rebellion, the minstrel's been calling it," she stated, escorting her father with her as they both sat down on the bed. "Did you win?"

"Yes."

"Did the Onion Knight come back with you?"

Stannis temporarily froze; his hard, steel blue eyes broke contact at the mere mention of Ser Davos's moniker. "He did," he admitted. "Both he and his son Matthos fought bravely."

"But he hasn't come to see me. He said he'd bring me back a present from the capital once the battle was over."

"He won't be visiting, child."

Shireen frowned. "Why not? He's my friend," she said and stood up, scrounging around in her little box before pulling out a small, wooden boat. "Look. He made this for me. But don't tell mother I have it. It's a secret. Mother doesn't like the Onion Knight."

Stannis examined the toy boat before handing it back. "Ser Davos is a traitor," he firmly yet gently told her. "He's rotting in a dungeon cell for his crime. Best forget him."

"But—"

"We've received a royal summons from your cousin. The trial will take place within a fortnight. Be sure you look presentable."

Shireen lowered her head in sadness, her fingers brushing over the boat Ser Davos made for her as Stannis stood up from the bedside and left the room.

_'Maybe I could convince cousin Daveth to free him…'_  she thought.  _'Of course, I'd have to be granted an audience first.'_

"And where's—?"

"Melisandre said she had some business to attend to somewhere in the Riverlands. Best not speak of it again."

The young Baratheon girl, still unconvinced about what her father told her, waited until nightfall before she awoke from her early slumber. Grabbing a small pack, Shireen grabbed a few books and slung the bag over her shoulder before making her next move. Slowly pushing the door in her room open, Shireen peered her head out—looking left and right to ensure the coast was clear. Once she was certain all was clear, the young Baratheon quietly snuck out of her room and climbed down the steps of the Stone Drum.

Upon entering the dungeon cells, Shireen peers around the corner to see the gaoler, who was a rather known drunk, passed out with a large mug of ale. Snoring loudly, Shireen saw her opportunity and quietly crept past him until she finally arrived at her destination. Dropping to her knees, Shireen looked into the cell to see the person she's been searching for—Ser Davos Seaworth. Judging by his raggedy hair, Davos appeared to be an emotional wreck and suffered sleepless nights since his son Matthos died. Last he heard King Daveth awarded House Seaworth a posthumous knighthood to Matthos in recognition for his dedicated service and loyalty to the crown. Davos was proud of his son, but that did little to lessen the heartache.

"Ser Onion Knight," Shireen whispered.

Davos's ears perked up, looking around his cell to figure who was calling him. Glancing towards his right, his eyes widened at his visitor.

"My lady?" he exclaimed in surprise and stood up rather quickly, making his way towards the cell bars. "Gods, what are you doing here?"

"Shh! You'll wake Bert."

"Bert?"

"He's the fat one. He's on guard duty tonight. He likes to drink wine and sleep a lot."

It was no secret that Shireen was close with Ser Davos. The young Baratheon girl was indeed rather fond of him and considers the Onion Knight a friend, while Davos who loves her like his own daughter. His facial expression marked surprise and concern, but not for himself.

"You know you're not supposed to be here," Davos whispered. "If your father finds you here…"

"He said you were a traitor," she said. "Are you?"

Davos wanted to tell Shireen what bothered him, but found himself unable to get the words out. He was too emotionally worn out. "I disobeyed my liege lord, child. Your father, and now I'm paying the price."

Shireen shook her head defiantly. "I don't care. You're my friend," she said and reached into her sack to pull out one of her books. "I brought you something to read. It's about Aegon the Conqueror and his dragons. Aegon used to live here. Did you know that? And the Targaryens built this castle."

Davos found himself smiling at Shireen's excitement at retelling the histories of the Targaryens; it was like spending time with his family all over again; whatever grief the Onion Knight felt was slowly beginning to heal at the interaction between him and Stannis's daughter Shireen Baratheon—despite the circumstances.

"Aye, so they did," he told her.

Shireen handed Davos the book. "Here. You can hide it under your cloak," she offered. "It's a good one. I'll bring you more."

Davos shook his head. "I'm sure it's a fine book, but it's wasted on me."

"Take it. I have more," Shireen insisted.

"My lady, I can't read the words," the Onion Knight confessed.

Shireen raised an eyebrow, tilting her head sideways in confusion before realization finally set in. "You don't know how to read?"

Davos shook his head.

"All right, then. I'll teach you. I'll come when Bret's on duty. It'll be fun."

"No, no, no," the Onion Knight shook his head again. "We can't."

"Why not? What will they do, lock us in cells?"

Davos snickered at Shireen's witty retort, gazing upon the book she was holding. "I wouldn't know where to start," he traced his finger over the cover.

"At the beginning," she said, turning the pages. "This word right here? It's 'Aegon.' When you see 'A', 'E', and 'G' together like that, it sounds like 'egg'. And the title of the whole book is  _A History of Aegon the Conqueror and His Conquest of Westeros_."

Ser Davos leaned against the wall of his cells, leaning his head closely at the book Shireen Baratheon was reading to him. As he listened to her words, his mind remained set on this moment; however brief it may be – come the dawn, the Dragonstone household will be preparing to travel to King's Landing to act as witnesses for the trial of the captive ironborn hostages. Until then, that can wait. For now, Davos and Shireen practiced throughout the night, ignoring what remained on the other side of the world.

* * *

**Somewhere in the Hollow Hill…**

* * *

   

Deep within the Riverlands, the Brotherhood Without Banners sat by the campfire. Among the men, Bodrin sat by the fire – his old hands shook as he still bore witness to the events taking place over the last several days; the small folk whisperer had been within the Riverlands for a long time with Gendry, who stood on the opposite side of the clearing of the cave – listening to his hammer hitting solid steel on a makeshift anvil. Bodrin watched the boy closely, noticing how much he resembled a certain someone in regards to physical appearance.

"Still spooked, old man?"

Bodrin looked at Thoros of Myr, who laid upon his makeshift quilt with his head on a stone drinking rum from his flask. He observed the red priest closely across the flames.

"What becomes of us now? Me and Gendry?" he asked. "The Hound is gone to who-knows-where, especially after that whole debacle with Lord Beric Dondarrion. Tell me, what do you have in store for us?"

"Lad's a pretty good smith," Thoros answered. "And you…? Well, you've got connections in high places. We could use good people like you. At first light we'll ride for Riverrun before Edmure Tully departs for the Twins."

"Why Riverrun?"

"He'll make a contribution to our cause, and if you two prefer to part ways with us then you're both free to go."

Bodrin raised an eyebrow in suspicion. "Just like that? I get the feeling there's more going on than you appear to be telling me."

"Try not to think of it like that," the red priest shook his head.

"And that butcher?"

Thoros looked lost in thought. "Karrem still mourns the loss of his boy, and still has a hard time coping with the fact that his son's killer was set free."

"It's hard thing for a father to lose a child."

"Aye. That it is."

_'Understandably so, but I feel the butcher might pose a problem,'_  Bodrin theorized.

Thoros appeared to look as if he knew what the old man was thinking. "Beric admired the King's late father-in-law and owed him a great deal, you know; even funded our mission for a time."

"Lord Eddard Stark was an honorable man," Bodrin agreed. "Men like him are hard to come by, and sadly most of them don't live long back in the capital."

"That they don't."

Bodrin watched as Beric Dondarrion made his way towards them and sat down next to Thoros. He watched the old man with his one eye for a moment before noticing his hands trembling slightly.

"You appear disturbed at what you saw, Bodrin," he told him. "I don't blame you. Not many lived to see the things we in the Brotherhood have seen. You disapprove of my earlier decision."

"You mean the Hound?" Bodrin asked. "You let him go after he admitted to killing the butcher's boy. He showed no remorse for his past deeds, and will still be hunted down as a fugitive for desertion at Blackwater Bay."

"I know, but letting him go was the right thing. I have more reason to want him hanged."

"I thought he killed you. Then you…"

Beric understood where this conversation was going. "He did," he told him.

"But how…?" Bodrin pressed.

"Thoros," the Brotherhood leader turned to his companion, "our friend here appears to be rather confused. How many times have you brought me back?"

Thoros lifted his flask. "It's the Lord of Light who brings you back," he told him. "I'm just the lucky drunk who says the words."

"Yes, but how many times?"

"Five?" the red priest scratched his beard. "No, no, no. This makes… ah, six. Six times."

_'Six?'_  Bodrin looked puzzled. In his mind, there was no logical explanation that anyone could have been killed six times and be brought back to life every time. It wasn't possible. "When did…?"

"The fight with the Mountain was the first time. Show him," Thoros beseeched Beric.

The Lord of Blackhaven and leader of the Brotherhood Without Banners undid the laces on his tunic so that he could open it and show Bodrin the scars covering his chest. He ran his fingers over the scars before moving onto the next.

"First time was when the Mountain drove a lance right though the chest."

Beric chimed in. "Then I was stabbed in the belly."

"Then it was an arrow in the back," Thoros continued. "And that axe in the side."

"Then the Mountain suffocated me with a tight leather cord while his lackeys 'played' with me. Was it death by strangulation or a dagger in the eye?" the Lord of Blackhaven lifted the patch over his eye.

"Both. Fuckers couldn't decide. And the Hound makes six."

Beric shook his head. "The third time I've been killed by a Clegane."

"You think you'd learn by now," Thoros chuckled before it came to a quick end. "It's not getting any easier."

"What do you mean?" asked Bodrin.

"Every time I come back… I'm a bit less," Beric explained. "Pieces of you get chipped away when you're brought back from the dead."

Bodrin moved to settle the shaking in his palms, listening to what the men were telling him. He still couldn't wrap his mind around all that transpired in this very cave while a war raged around them. Even so, Bodrin reached into his pocket and pulled out an old amulet.

"What's that?" Thoros asked.

Bodrin pressed his thumb on the side of it, the sound of clicking made itself apparent before the locket opened up to reveal a small painting inside. In the trinket, the painting showed himself with a young man, young woman and five little children.

"A portrait," Bodrin explained, his voice breaking slightly. "My son, my daughter-in-law… and my grandchildren. They were killed when Joffrey started that godforsaken riot…"

Beric felt a wave of sympathy for his old friend, watching as Bodrin wiped away a tear. Thoros felt his pain; time had passed, but the wound was still raw and had a hard time healing. Perhaps they could give the old man a new purpose with the Brotherhood, but will he accept it? Or refuse?

"They're at rest now, old friend, somewhere," Beric tried to reassure him, his voice soft and gentle.

Bodrin looked at Beric, unconvinced. But he already knew what he had lost. He didn't need to hear sympathetic assurances again. He stood up, paying no mind to the gazes on him. Bodrin needed to get away from that for a moment. Taking a few steps towards the exit of the cave, he looked up at the night sky – the moon shined brightly along with the stars.

_'The war is over, yet more will come soon,'_  Bodrin speculated. He turned to see Gendry mending one of the Brotherhood's armor. "You never rest with that hammer, don't you boy?" he asked.

Gendry looked up at him, shamefaced. "I'm going to stay and smith for the Brotherhood."

Bodrin couldn't believe his ears. "You're what?" he exclaimed disapprovingly, trying to keep his voice down. "Gendry, what are you saying?"

"I want to stay. They need good men."

"The Oathkeeper needs good men, too, lad."

"I almost got killed when that illborn Prince Joffrey Baratheon sent men after me to kill me," he argued.

Bodrin shook his head in disbelief. "And how is that King Daveth's fault?"

Gendry shook his head, refused to budge an inch. "Because they're brothers. Try to convince me otherwise, old man, but I'm done serving. I've served men my entire life."

"And how is what you're doing here any different from Master Mott at King's Landing?"

"Because the Brotherhood  _chose_  Lord Beric, not just 'cause he's their leader. These men are brothers. They're a family."

"You're making a mistake, Gendry," Bodrin turned back to him.

He smiled at him, almost ruefully. "Maybe, but at least I'm not dead yet."

And that was it. No matter how many times or how hard he tried, Bodrin knew he couldn't dissuade Gendry from making a choice like this. During their travels on the road since fleeing the capital he thought of the young man as a son, and went to great lengths to protect him. Here he was, young and thinking himself capable. But in Bodrin's mind… Gendry still had much to learn. The old man suspected there'd be more trouble coming, so he decided to stick around longer.

But only for  _his_  sake…

* * *

**In the Red Keep…**

* * *

Cersei Lannister trekked through the halls of the Red Keep, still fuming in the darkness of night. The Queen Mother had already spoken with her handmaiden Bernadette about dealing with certain issues that ought to be delivered to her attention. And she just recently left a conversation with Qyburn, the unethical former maester now in service to her. Cersei felt increasingly unnerved about her daughter-in-law Sansa Stark's growing popularity and her eldest son Daveth's military victory over the Iron Islands. All of whom were getting results done ever so quickly throughout the realm they formed to be an effective, well-loved pair.

The Golden Lioness's jealousy was ever growing and threatened to consume her. For a long time she dreamt she sat on the Iron Throne, high above them all. The courtiers were brightly colored mice below. Great lords and proud ladies knelt before her. Bold young knights laid their swords at her feet and pleaded for her favors, and the Queen smiled down at them; until the Young Stag's face appeared from nowhere, outpacing and outmaneuvering her at nearly every turn with the Starks behind him. The lords and ladies began to chuckle, hiding their smiles behind their hands.

Cersei shook her head; she was not pleased. The Lannisters were the wealthiest and powerful families of Westeros, yet the Starks were the oldest and honorable. A power struggle brewed between these two noble houses. But that was a suspicion she dare not speak aloud – considering how far she'd fallen from her son's favor prior to the Battle of Blackwater Bay. In an effort to undermine the Stark girl's rising influence, Cersei sought to take action from behind the scenes – beginning at Flea Bottom. She glanced to her right, and noticed one of the Red Keep's apartment doors was left open ajar and a bright glowing light shone inside.

 

Pushing the door slightly open to get a better view, Cersei looked to see a woman dressed in crimson red robes standing in front of a pyre with her hands held out. She was whispering enchantments in a language Cersei did not understand, but she'd never allow any uninvited guests near her halls.

"Who are you, and why are you here?" Cersei demanded, making her entrance known.

The woman did not flinch, nor turn her head. "How long has it been since we last me, Queen Mother Cersei of House Lannister? Fifteen years?" she spoke calmly, gazing into the flames.

The daughter of the Rock was in no mood for games. "You know that no one is to enter or leave without my permission," she told her firmly. The command came easily to her. "How did you even get in here?"

"The desires of men are easy to exploit; sweet words or bribe of the flesh, only the true ones easily avoid temptation."

"You did not answer your Queen's question."

"I fear that this Sansa Stark is Queen now. A Queen stops being a Queen upon the death of her husband, is that how it works in this strange land?"

Cersei felt increasingly irritated, and acted on impulse moved to grab her arm. However, upon gripping the strange woman's arm, she felt a burning sensation in her palm.

"Aah!" she yelped, yanking her hand backward to reveal a bright burn on her palm.

The woman finally turned her head. "Perhaps that was not the wisest course of action on your part, Queen Mother Cersei of House Lannister."

Cersei blew air on her hand trying to cool herself down. "What vile magic is this to burn my hands?!" she demanded.

"Patience now," she replied calmly. "We've met before, you and I."

The mysterious woman pulled back her hood to reveal her face. Cersei looked at her, studying her facial structures rather closely as the pyre behind her burned brightly. Once she was capable of recognizing her, Cersei shook her head in disbelief.

"The night my son was bedridden with the fever…" she mused.

The woman nodded. "Indeed. His Grace was suffering terribly that night. I offered my service to save your firstborn's life, and it worked. We weren't properly introduced back then, of course."

Cersei shook her hand, ignoring the burning sensation. "And why should it matter to me now?" she pressed.

"If you truly wish a formal introduction, my name is Vaeraleah, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Asshai, the Flame of Truth, Light of Wisdom and First Servant of the Lord of Light," she answered. "But please, just Vaeraleah."

_'A priestess? Why would a priestess come here?'_  the Golden Lioness thought. "I've never met one of these so-called red priests or this Lord of Light."

"That is because our god R'hllor is more prominent across the Narrow Sea in Essos, but only has a few followers here. You Westerosi called him the red god."

"Well, if you have so few followers here, then you must have been terrible at it."

Vaeraleah shook her head. "Not precisely, Your Grace. We are merely servants in the Lord of Light's quest to bring about truth and understanding, yet even some of our flocks tend to misinterpret His will and stray from the true path."

Cersei rolled her eyes. "Well, as amusing as this might be, you are required to leave at once."

Before she could turn away, Vaeraleah calls out to her. "Have you ever wondered why your son's path led you to such a state of disarray?"

Cersei stopped midway before turning back at her. "Why should you care? Daveth doesn't listen to me, his own—"

"The Lord of Light has expressed His great favor towards this young man. To inflict harm on those he cherishes will bring about great misfortune… as it had with that woods witch in the swamp near Casterly Rock. You know of whom I speak?"

Feeling a chill crawl up her spine, Cersei's gaze was sharp and intense. "How did you…?"

"I receive visions from the Lord," Vaeraleah explains. "Past, present, future… such visions come easily to those who follow His will. Should I explain what future Maggy the Frog told you when you were a girl?"

Cersei moved again, only to be stopped when Vaeraleah snapped her fingers – causing the flames in the pyre behind her to shoot straight up.

_'What vile magic is this?'_  she thought, half in awe, half in fear.

"Or should I tell you of your son Daveth Baratheon's survival? How he lived? The day you permitted me to assist in his recovery?" she offered.

Cersei stood her ground as the flames dimmed down again. Vaeraleah smiled as she cupped Cersei's chin and brought it to face her.

"Your son died that day. And with the Lord of Light's touch, I brought him back; because it was not his time, for he is one of three sides of the same pyramid – a Prince That Was Promised."

"Wha—"

"And all you need to know is that your son knows nothing of what transpired that day. I have no plans on converting him, if that's your concern. The Lord of Light wishes to establish a connection and seek perfection through understanding one another. Otherwise…"

"'Otherwise'…?" Cersei asked, feeling threatened and intimidated.

Vaeraleah smiled. "The night is dark and full of terrors, Queen Mother. Best be sure not to provoke the Lord's Chosen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some old faces and familiar ones, but what was that last part? Introducing Shireen Baratheon, Stannis's daughter and Daveth's cousin. Also included was Bodrin, one of Daveth's top informants fled into the Riverlands with Gendry. And… the identity of the mysterious red woman from the beginning made her way back into the storyline. Who is she, and what is she after now that she's come back? Was there any bombshells did you find shocking or confusing? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> Next chapter will include the trial of the Greyjoys; so stay tuned for more info.


	65. Trial of the Last Greyjoys

* * *

**Within the Red Keep…**

* * *

  

 

The hour had come. The night of the harvest moon had arrived. After a brief extension and series of preparations, King Daveth I Baratheon stood on the Iron Throne – waiting to cast judgment on the prisoners of war: Aeron Grejoy—brother of the late Balon Greyjoy—and Yara Greyjoy, daughter of Balon Greyjoy. Flanked by six of gold cloaks and gazed upon by the gathered assembly of jurors, the Greyjoys were in chains and to be put on trial for the crimes committed against the realm. A majority of jurors hailed from the Westerlands, with only a select few from the Riverlands and the Reach.

Each of the gathered witnesses had given their testimony, explaining in detail of the events that had occurred on the western coasts. Once they gave their testimony, they were dismissed. And sitting on the Iron Throne was the young man who was expected to render a final judgment.

Daveth gripped the pommel of one of the swords making up the Iron Throne, drumming his fingers across it as he traded glances with his Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister. His grandfather stood at his side during the trial—offering counsel and suggestions into his grandson's ear. The trial would be meant to serve justice, but to allow a select few to determine it as a testament to the Young Stag overcoming his inner demons. Two of the three stood before him, with only one remaining in Maegor's Holdfast. No matter; he'll deal with him later.

"All rise," the royal steward called out.

Each of the jurors stood, and was waived down by Lord Tywin. The Old Lion looked as if he was made of stone, his fingers steepled beneath his chin before raising a hand. Bit by bit, the hall grew silent.

"Your Grace, my lords, you all recall the events that took place surrounding the Neck and along our coastlines," Tywin begun, his voice cool and calculated. "I submit to the crown Aeron Greyjoy, a Drowned Man who remains loyal to his brother, the traitor and usurper King Balon Greyjoy. Although he took no part in the battle, he still remains wanted after his escape from captivity during the first uprising. He does not contest this."

Chains clanked as the City Watchmen took Aeron Greyjoy first, slumping him forward before the foot of the steps to the Iron Throne.

"Speculations suggest that Aeron knew of his brother's plot to rebel against the crown again before Victarion seized Moat Cailin," he continued, "yet he only gives us his word that he knew otherwise."

Daveth shifted slightly on the throne, ignoring the murmuring gallery of citizens. "Knowingly or not, the crimes of one man had condemned his own brethren to death while the idleness of others only served to accelerate the outcome. Such a crime cannot be overlooked. Does the accused have anything to say in his defense?" he spoke calmly.

Aeron remained motionless, yet met the Young Stag's gaze. "The Drowned God proclaimed me His prophet, He Who Dwells Beneath the Waves raised up Balon of House Greyjoy – only to be struck down by a godless boy."

 _'Again with the ranting and raving,'_  Daveth thought as he rolled his eyes. Tywin looked at his grandson, only to be met with a facial expression of "Don't look at me" giving a hint of what was going through his mind; just the ravings of another delusional, madman.

Prince Oberyn Martell, one of the three royal judges, was the first to laugh in amusement. Jaime and Tyrion Lannister shook their heads, unamused at the Drowned Men's preaching. Cersei was annoyed, then Lord Randyll Tarly, Yohn Royce, and more lords and ladies than even the Young Stag could count.

"Will you offer nothing in your defense?" Tywin demanded.

Aeron shook his head. "Fate had shown itself and gave its favor to the victor when the Young Stag came to our shores once more, but that does not mean the end of us; our way of life. What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. Render your judgment and bring down your blade, Oathkeeper, for you have won nothing in the end."

Tywin and Daveth locked eyes, nodding and gestured towards each other.

"War is an ugly business, but sometimes a necessary one. Conflict at times forces us to make rather difficult choices, but in the end… justice demands its due," Daveth announced. "Aeron Greyjoy, in light of the crimes your house has committed against the realm, you are hereby sentenced to death." The Young Stag turned towards the King's Justice. "Ser Ilyn, take him to the chopping block."

Ser Ilyn Payne, the mute royal executioner, let out a low, rumbling growl as he grabbed Aeron's arm rather roughly, dragging him through the throne room's main hall. With the chains clanking against each other, Yara Greyjoy looked back as her uncle was dragged off for a public execution. All she heard was the faintest sound of Aeron's prayers, before being jerked forward.

"Come on you!" shouted one of the City Watchmen.

Yara gritted her teeth as she was thrown before the Iron Throne. She took a moment to regain her balance. Daveth and Yara quietly traded glances before Prince Oberyn spoke up.

"Well," the Red Viper begun, "there shouldn't be a reminder for this one. Her capture on the battlefield couldn't have been more… eh, artful. I believe you two know each other. Princess Yara Greyjoy of Pyke, daughter of the Kraken King, although her titles means nothing these days—with the Iron Islands gone and all."

Yara looked brazen. "Peh!" she spat.

Tywin was unamused by her posturing. "Despite her aggressive tone, Your Grace, Yara Greyjoy has  _surprisingly_  acknowledged your authority."

Daveth raised an eyebrow.  _'Is that so?'_  he thought to himself. "Yara of the House Greyjoy, you stand accused of piracy, reaving, pillaging, murder, and treason. How do you answer the charges?"

"Spare me the theatrics, Oathkeeper. We all know this trial is nothing but a farce," she dismissed rudely.

"Then I hope you're lucid enough to understand the damage you've caused."

"You think I did this on a whim? Our way is the old way, Oathkeeper. I only did what I did to ensure the survival of my people. Food, fine clothes, coin… All the resources we took from the mainland, we did only to survive. You've been on the Iron Islands twice before you came back and destroyed it all."

Daveth continued drumming his fingers. "And whose fault was that, pray tell? Was it not your father Balon Greyjoy's own hubris that led the ironborn's downfall?"

Yara felt her lip curl into a snarl before settling down. "Mock us all you want, but we both know that we weren't your primary target. No, you only had to make an example out of us. Your real enemy is still at large. Yes, I remember; the one who inflicted such a great deal of trauma when you were our 'guest'. Does his name sound familiar?"

Daveth's fingers stopped drumming and his eyes grew narrow; silence had befallen the throne room. The Young Stag knew the person Yara was speaking of as the lords and ladies of the court, including the other judges Tywin and Oberyn, looked on watching the Young Stag collect himself.

"Euron Greyjoy," he exhaled sharply.

Yara nodded. "Indeed. He's who you're really after, isn't it?"

"Goad me all you like, yet need I remind you that you're the one standing trial now. Many places felt the pain of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. Because you yourself had a role in it, you will answer for a great deal."

"You mean the North?" she scoffed. "Pfff! Had I known that father would continue to throw our lives away, even knowing that this would be our fate, I would have ousted him a lot sooner."

Oberyn chimed in. "Sounds like you had a last minute change of heart. Why?" he asked.

"I knew the war was lost as soon as we learned we lost every stronghold on the mainland," Yara explained. "I know my father was a terrible King, yet I stayed because I believed I could free my little brother and abscond away to start a new life in Essos. I stayed because I only wanted to get Theon back. But no, you denied me that when our fleets clashed at sea."

 _'So… it's Theon she wants,'_  the Young Stag theorized. "There were other paths you could have taken instead of paying the iron price. No, that would have been too much, wouldn't it? Well, sorry to disappoint you, Yara, but all of that stops now. The integrity of the Seven Kingdoms will be respected. No more reaving, roving, raiding or raping."

"That was our way of life."

" _Not anymore_."

Tensions were slowly rising; the lords and ladies chattered amongst themselves, but Tywin placed a hand on his grandson's shoulder and pulled him aside, quietly informing the Young Stag to exercise restraint. A couple in and out breathing sessions later, Daveth managed to calm himself down.

"Does the accused have anything else to say in her defense?" he asked.

Yara shook her head. "Does it look like my fate matters at this point? I'm not offering any sort of defense," she retorted. "You've made your decision already. Not going to waste my breath anymore."

Daveth brought his fist up to his chin; Yara Greyjoy acknowledged her role, yet surprisingly admitted why she stayed on longer during the war than she originally let on, why she boarded the  _King Robert's Hammer_  before being repelled by the Tarly troops. Yara only went to get Theon back, but was unable to and knew the ironborn cause was lost. Closing his eyes, Daveth pondered at the possible verdict he would render. He reopened them and exhaled slowly.

"Whatever your reasons may or may not be, there still remains a group you have wronged more than any. The Crown could use more friends in the North. So we'll barter you there," he stated. "Yara Greyjoy, I give you to our allies in Deepwood Motte. House Glover will decide your fate."

Yara shook her head again. "Either way, the judgment's a death sentence. The northerners always did enjoy carrying it out themselves personally."

Tywin Lannister and Oberyn Martell watched as the gold cloaks took Yara away, offering no resistance – but ever still there remained a glimmer of fire in her eyes. Both determined they will most likely not see the last of her. Daveth somehow must have believed the same thing. They believed that Yara will come back at some point, but they'll be ready as always. The Young Stag pondered whether or not he actually made the right decision – though Ser Barristan Selmy seemingly nodded his head in approval with the trial out of the way.

Once the doors closed, Daveth stood from the Iron Throne. "The trial is hereby concluded. Clear the court!"

Soon as the lords and ladies got up from their seats to leave, Daveth Baratheon descended the steps of the Iron Throne with his fellow councilors in tow.

"W-was that truly wise, Your Grace?" asked Grand Maester Pycelle. "The-the Greyjoy lass could one day prove a-a threat."

"I'll deal with that later, Pycelle," he dismissed. "For now, I ask to be left alone for a while. I have some… unfinished business to take care of."

The other royal councilors stood in their tracks, ceasing their movements as they watched the Young Stag wander off on his own—accompanied by his Kingsguard knights Barristan and Lucius. Tywin observed Daveth's posture before recognizing it as steady and unrelenting; the Old Lion did indeed notice several changes in the youth's behavior and mindset. If anything, Daveth's stride seemed to be carrying a sense of purpose and determination.

 _'And perhaps… write some letters,'_  the Young Stag murmured quietly.

* * *

**Near the Red Keep's dungeon's second level…**

* * *

Theon Greyjoy sat in the room, his hands still tied by rope restraints and unable to go anywhere—not with everyone present. Before him stood Sansa Stark, Catelyn Stark, Arya Stark and the two women Kingsguard Brienne of Tarth and Ariyana Dayne. Sansa had been pressing Theon for quite some time into accepting the deal she had proposed to her husband earlier, yet Theon looked more guilt-ridden the more time progressed.

"He's going to have me killed," he complained.

Arya shook her head. "Even he did, I'd never allow him to hurt you. We've known you for years!" she protested.

"Arya!" Sansa chimed in. "Theon, listen to me. I worked hard these last few days to convince His Grace to spare your life  _if_  you agree to meet his terms. Daveth will be merciful. I know it."

Theon looked up at her. "You and Robb have far more faith in me."

"Robb thinks of you as a brother," Catelyn reassured him. "We'll vouch for you."

***KNOCK!***

***KNOCK!***

The Stark women turned towards the door; before Brienne could reach to grab the handle, the door swung open—revealing King Daveth himself. All stood in attendance with the exception of Theon, who dared not risk moving a muscle.

"Your Grace," Ariyana lowered her head.

"Your Grace," Brienne lowered her head.

Daveth waved them off. "Leave us," he instructed.

Brienne and Ariyana left the room, assuming duty watch outside. One to keep any uninvited dignitaries outside from coming in; and the other to respond to any sort of disturbance coming from inside. Daveth looked over his shoulder before returning his gaze to Theon, Sansa, Arya and Catelyn.

"All right, let's get this over with."

Arya stepped forward. "Don't even think about killing him!" she challenged him.

"Arya!" Sansa and Catelyn exclaimed.

Daveth eyed the little she-wolf.  _'She certainly doesn't lack for spirit and is rather straight-forward. Wolf's blood indeed,'_  he thought. "Your uncle Aeron has been sentenced to death, Theon. Ser Ilyn is carrying out the execution even as we speak."

Theon felt his stomach turn in knots and a chill crawl throughout his body. "And my sister?" he asked. "What about Yara?"

"She'll be transferred to Deepwood Motte," the Young Stag answered. "Bit of karma, actually. Your sister  _did_  attack House Glover's lands, now they'll decide her fate."

"But they'll kill her!"

"If Robett Glover wants her head in retribution for the atrocities the ironborn committed against Deepwood Motte and House Glover, then he'll have it."

Theon frowned, hoping that Yara would at least be shown mercy – but alas to no avail. "Then… what'll happen to me now?" he asked. "The Iron Islands are gone, my home is gone, my family is gone… and with Yara being sent away, I'm the only one left."

Daveth shook his head. "Not technically the last, but that's not why I'm here." He approached his captive, lifting his chin up to meet him at eye-level. "You understand the request Queen Sansa's asked of you?"

Theon nodded slowly. "She wants me to bend the knee, hoping you'd spare me. Gave me a choice just like my father did."

"And for that you feel… conflicted?" he asked.

Theon looked at the Stark women before looking away in shame. "I…"

"Have you told them what happened back at Winterfell?" he asked again. "About the boys? Bran? Rickon?"

Sansa, Arya and Catelyn looked at the two men suspiciously.

"Theon," Catelyn approached him, "tell me you didn't do what I think you—"

"I didn't do anything to them, my lady! I swear!" Theon protested. "I just…"

Daveth seized his chance. "Then perhaps you wouldn't mind telling Lady Stark exactly what you just told me and Robb after we took back Moat Cailin, hmm?"

Theon looked back at the Starks again, guilt and shame apparent on his face. Luckily for him, they appeared to have noticed.

"Theon," Sansa asked, "what happened with our brothers?"

"Are Bran and Rickon okay?" pressed Arya.

"They…" the Greyjoy begun, a lump formed in his throat before gulping. "Some crannogmen from the Neck came up, asking for Bran to seek out some mythical figure. A, uh, Three-Eyed Raven or something?"

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "And just who or what is this so-called Three-Eyed Raven?" he turned to his wife. "Sansa, have you ever heard him?" he asked.

Sansa shook her head. "No, my husband. Not once."

"And you just sent them away?" Catelyn chastised Theon, her maternal instincts gradually rising. "They're only boys, Theon!  _My sons_! How are they supposed to fend for themselves out there?"

Theon opened his mouth to speak, but Daveth cut him off.

"Because if he didn't, then Locke and Roose Bolton's bastard son Ramsay would have held them hostage when they came strolling into Winterfell," the Young Stag finished. "Isn't that right, Theon?"

Theon looked back and forth, before slowly nodding his head. "Yes."

Sansa, Arya and Catelyn exchanged glances between each other; the three women trading glances between each other – thinking of possible plans on how to retrieve Bran and Rickon from what appeared to be an aimless journey for someone or something they had never even heard of. Even with the crannogmen Jojen and Meera Reed protecting them and Robb Stark already assembling a search-and-rescue party, they knew they would still need assistance. Daveth looked at them and back at Theon.

"You do realize that if I let you live, you'll be living a much harsher life."

"My life's been hard since I came to Winterfell as… as a ward," he answered. "I regretted some things I've done. I always wanted to do the right thing. Be the right kind of person. My father didn't trust me. Thought I was a Stark. I never knew what that meant. I made a choice, and I… I don't…"

"Don't what?"

"It…" Theon hesitated for a brief moment, he appeared close to tears. "It always seemed like there was like a difficult choice I had to make. Stark or Greyjoy."

Daveth kept a hard gaze on Theon. "Ned Stark was more of a father to you than yours ever was."

Theon nodded. "I know. He was. My real father died here in the capital after the Battle of Blackwater Bay last year, because he believed he did the right thing by sacrificing himself for what was the most important. I regret… I regret that I wasn't able to tell him how grateful I was to him for teaching me what family actually meant."

The Young Stag's intensity lessened and broke his gaze, looking at the floor as memories of his time with the deceased Lord Eddard Stark—Warden of the North, Hand of the King… and father-in-law. Daveth remembered how close he was with his own father King Robert I Baratheon, and how instrumental of a role he played in arranging his marriage with Sansa. To listen to Theon's inner conflict of identity was a similar one… Baratheon or Lannister? In the end, Lord Jon Arryn broke down the barrier with a simple explanation. One that Daveth himself took to heart. Shaking his head, Daveth unsheathed a hidden dagger from his sleeve—surprising all in attendance.

"No, Daveth! Wait! Don't!" they shouted.

Theon Greyjoy quickly shut his eyes tight, expecting whatever fate he believed to be in store for him. Brienne and Ariyana rushed back inside upon hearing the shouts, only to see what surprise awaited them.

***RIP!***

Theon slowly opened his eyes and felt the restraints around his arms fall to the floor, giving him freedom of movement. He looked at the rope falling to the floor before looking back up at Daveth in confusion. To his surprise, the Young Stag had cut off his restraints.

"Why?" he asked bewildered.

Daveth shook his head. "You never had to choose between two identities. You can be both a Greyjoy  _and_  a Stark; not because you have to, Theon, but if you choose to be. I don't know if I'll ever forgive House Greyjoy for what they've done to me in the past, I do know now that it is not fair to blame the son for the sins of the father. It's… something I had to learn the hard way, after Moat Cailin."

For a moment, Theon could hardly speak.

"For Robb's sake," he continued, "for my wife Sansa's sake… Bend the knee, swear me an oath of fealty and vow that from this day forward your father's evil and the Old Way of paying the iron price died with him. Promise me that you will build a new House Greyjoy in service to the Starks of Winterfell. Swear to me that you will uphold this vow, and I swear in the light of the Seven I will give your family one more chance at redemption."

Theon felt himself tremble, taking glances at the Stark women. Arya and Catelyn remained indifferent, but somewhat hopeful. Sansa, meanwhile, nodded her head as if to beg Theon to accept the deal. Briefly lowering his head, Theon got down to one knee.

"I… I swear," he proclaimed. "By the Old Gods and the New, by all the Gods… I pledge myself to House Stark. My sword is theirs, from this day until my last day. This I swear."

Sansa smiled, happy with the offer at the chance of redemption being accepted. She rubbed her pregnant belly as if to sooth the unborn baby inside her. Daveth, meanwhile, raised his hand up to Theon.

 _'Don't make me regret doing this,'_  he thought. "In three days' time, you will depart with Lady Stark for White Harbor and assist Robb Stark in finding Bran and Rickon and see them returned safely to Winterfell. He'll be expecting you. Do not squander this nor mistake my generosity for weakness. Understood?"

Theon nodded. "I understand."

Daveth nodded, looking at Sansa who smiled at him in approval. "Then perhaps I will retire to my chambers. Sansa, would you walk with me?"

Sansa nodded. "Of course, my King." As she hooked Daveth's arm, she looked back at her mother and sister. "Mother, Arya… could you give my regards to Robb? Tell him His Grace has heeded his counsel."

Both didn't even get a chance to reply as the King and Queen left to their chambers. Theon, meanwhile, his mind still reeling at being given a second chance—to redeem and rebuild House Greyjoy on the mainland—slowly began packing his belongings and was rather eager to get back into the fray, yet his mind still wandered around the well-being of his sister Yara. Something in his gut told Theon that he'd see her again at some point, but he'd have to learn how to practice restraint… any misstep could ultimately cost him.

_'Wait for me, Yara. I'll make our family—a new Greyjoy line—something to be proud of. The iron price? We're done with all that now.'_

* * *

**In the royal bedchamber…**

* * *

 

Daveth and Sansa sat on the bed, each of them having had a long, trying day. Days of prepping for the trial, rendering judgment… It was a stressful moment that was lifted off their shoulders and each of them were given a moment of reprieve. Sansa unveiled her sewing needles, stopping only to massage her belly, looked over to see her husband at his desk—pulling out a piece of quill and paper.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

Daveth dipped his quill in ink and began writing. "Keeping a promise," he answered. "I gave Myrcella my word that I'd write her letters. Between the two wars we faced, I… hadn't had enough time to send my sister some. Missed her last nameday too. Might need to think of what to send to Sunspear and arrange a possible visit as well…"

Sansa smiled. "I'm sure that whatever you buy for her, Myrcella will love it. She adores her big brother."

"Been a while since I last heard that," the Young Stag found his wife's teasing amusing. "Things haven't really been the same without her here."

"I can imagine. Princess Myrcella sent you dozens of letters while you were away."

"What did she say?"

"She asked if whether or not you were okay, how she's been doing… Myrcella was mostly worried about you. She believes you've been under a lot of stress."

Daveth stopped writing, frowning at his wife's words. "Then… then I take it she heard about Renly and Balon Greyjoy?"

Sansa nodded. "She did. I've been writing to her while you were away, hoping to set her mind at ease. Seemed a bit more relieved once she learned you kept your word."

 _'All this time, so far away not knowing whether I'd see her again… and still she worries,'_  the Young Stag thought deeply.  _'Cella…'_

Sansa placed her hand gently on Daveth's. "Dearest?" she asked slightly concerned.

Daveth met his wife's eyes, shaking his head and sighed. "I almost lost myself."

"What do you mean?"

"When I raised my armies and rode off to battle, all I could think of was a chance to pay the ironborn back after what they did to me. Never told anyone what happened at Lannisport eleven years ago, but they knew. I was… not myself after that. I was angry. I wanted revenge. Kept everything suppressed, private and locked away. And I sent 24,000 men to their graves because of it."

"Daveth…"

"Sansa, my own anger blinded me and my men paid the price for it. I know I'm better than this. The thought of slipping, losing control… it sickens me. That's not the kind of legacy I want to leave for our children."

Sansa frowned, worried. Until Daveth turned his hand over to hold hers, interlocking their fingers with one another.

"But I also learned an important lesson that day," he mentioned.

"What was it?" she asked.

Daveth let out a small smile. "That I was never alone to begin with," he answered. "It was never about what happened in the past or what may happen in the future, but rather we should instead focus on the here and now. It was something Jon Arryn taught me when I was a child; a lesson I had almost forgotten. Now that the war's over, I can put some distance between myself and everything that's happened."

Sansa raised their locked hands up, kissing Daveth's knuckles. "I'm not sure if this means something, but I like who you are now. What you've told me, it shows that you are the kind of King this country so desperately needs."

Daveth lifted his head in surprise. "Even after I…?"

Sansa cupped her husband's cheek. "Daveth, listen to me. You are my husband. I love you. I care about you. We're expecting our first child together. Whatever mistakes may or may not have happened, you've done nothing to change that. To me, you're still the same Daveth Baratheon I met and fell in love with two years ago."

Daveth felt he couldn't get the words out of his mouth to respond, uncertain as to what to say about how Queen Sansa Stark actually felt. All he could do was listen and try to comprehend his wife's words bit by bit.

 _'Seven hells, what did I ever do to deserve you…?'_  he thought. "Sansa, could you… stay with me? At least a little while longer?"

Sansa smiled. "Of course, my husband. Whenever you need me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather quick due process and trial, but were things done fairly or rather old-fashioned? To quell the thoughts some of you guys might have, Yara Greyjoy will be coming back in the near future so try not to fuss too much about it. Theon, meanwhile, has agreed to take the offer and will live to see another day and remake House Greyjoy in his image on the mainland. Good or bad? And the closing conversation with Daveth and Sansa… what did you guys think? Any thoughts you'd like to share? Let me know.


	66. Investigations, Secrets and Scandals

* * *

**In Daveth's chamber…**

* * *

    
 

Daveth sat at his desk writing letters with his right hand whilst shuffling other documents with his left. Beside him stood Olyvar Frey who assisted by mostly keeping important documents filed and organized and ensured His Grace did not lack refreshments. It was his first time in King's Landing, yet already was thrust into the thick of it; Olyvar remained a squire, yet felt anxious of wanting to continue his formal training. "Patience" or "learn how to adapt to the capital" were the responses he'd be met with whenever Olyvar inquired.

"What do we have so far?" Daveth asked, his eyes still set on the letter he was writing.

Olyvar held up another piece of paper. "Ser Colbat of House Darry made another request of reviewing his port's charter; says House Harner keeps harassing his merchant vessels."

"Ser Colbat had been making one inquiry after another for years, yet only postures and still offers no evidence to support his claim…  _again_. Refuse him, and should he try again Lord Tywin will simply send a singer to his halls. What else?"

"Lady Reina Fishport reports that her vineyard around Summerhall has brought in additional revenue and brought about significant wealth to her house, yet sadly tells us her husband succumbed to the fever."

_'She was one of my best agents. The common girl I raised to nobility two years ago after she aided Lord Marbrand,'_  the Young Stag remembered. "I see. Please send her my condolences."

"As you wish, Your Grace," Olyvar said.

Daveth shuffled through more documents, reviewing them one by one—until he started examining a report from Wisdom Hallyne of the Alchemists' Guild. Earlier upon returning to King's Landing but before the Greyjoy trial started, the Young Stag had privately instructed his uncle Ser Jaime Lannister and some of his top agents with removing the wildfire caches stationed at several major boulevards which remained scattered throughout the capital. From beneath the Great Sept of Baelor, beneath the Dragonpit, the slums of Flea Bottom, beneath the Red Keep and from houses, stables, taverns to every one of the city's gates, Daveth was rather disturbed when he learned of the Mad King's wildfire plot from Jaime. Once he was told the caches were completely removed, the Young Stag felt a bit of relief pouring over him. His eyes re-read each word of Hallyne's complaining penmanship over and over again.

"And so the final curtain falls," Daveth whispered.

Olyvar swore he heard something. "Your Grace?"

"It's nothing. Anything on today's agenda I should know?"

"Father has extended you an invitation to attend the wedding of my sister Roslin and Lord Edmure Tully back home at the Twins, Your Grace."

"Only because  _I_  had to clean up my brother-in-law's mess, no doubt. Tell me, Olyvar, wasn't one of your relatives married off recently?"

Olyvar nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. My niece Walda married Lord Roose Bolton a couple of nights ago and now resides at the Dreadfort. Father offered her weight in silver as a dowry."

_'Ah… the fat one,'_  the Young Stag shuddered at the thought. "So long as she keeps her distance from Lord Bolton's bastard son, then I wish her well."

"Thank you, Your Grace."

Daveth set his quill down and lifted a fist to his chin.  _'Which reminds me,'_  he thought deeply,  _'I'll need to send a raven to Winterfell at some point. Have Ser Rodrik keep a close eye on Ramsay.'_

"Your Grace?" spoke Olyvar.

"What else is there to discuss?" Daveth changed the subject.

The Frey squire sighed and examined the last document. "Lord Petyr Baelish has arrived in King's Landing from the Eyrie; says it's an urgent business."

Now THAT got Daveth's attention.  _'Littlefinger? What's he doing here?'_  he thought as he raised a suspicious eyebrow. "I didn't call for him."

Olyvar looked confused. The tone of the King's voice was rather serious. "Note says you did, Your Grace. Are you sure you didn't—?"

"No, I did not."

"Should I send him away?"

"No. Not yet. Go find out who sent him and report back to me.  _Now_."

Olyvar set down the documents and goblet to gather his wits before opening the door and rushing out into the main hall. As the Frey wandered off to carry out his King's instructions, Shireen Baratheon made her way into her cousin's room.

"Cousin!" she exclaimed with a smile.

Daveth's concentration broke as Shireen ran up to him and embraced him in a big hug. The Young Stag was taken by surprise for a few moments; his earlier thoughts of suspicion had died down when he returned the hug to the only cousin he has of the Baratheon bloodline.

"Shireen," he greeted. "You've grown since the last time I saw you. How long has it been?"

"About six years," Shireen replied as she pulled away. "I was hoping to have a private audience with you. Are you busy?"

Daveth shook his head. "I have time. What do you want?"

Shireen sat down. Her fingers twiddled slightly, but soon ceased as the younger female Baratheon assume a posture befitting someone of her status before looking her cousin in the eyes – never hesitating.

"Could you convince father to set Ser Onion Knight free?" Shireen asked.

Daveth raised an eyebrow. He hadn't heard of Ser Davos since the end of the Iron Islands campaign, yet alone had no idea that he was recently imprisoned.

"Ser Davos Seaworth? Why is he in the cells in the first place?" he asked.

"Father said he was a traitor."

"That's a very serious accusation. What was the crime Lord Stannis accused him of?"

"He didn't say, and Ser Davos only said he disobeyed him. I think the red woman had something to do with it."

Daveth frowned.  _'She must be referring to that red priestess, Melisandre. I heard she herself was on Great Wyk with Stannis, where the conflicting reports first arose…'_  he believed.  _'I'll be certain to have a few words about it with him before they leave for Dragonstone tonight.'_

"Could you free him? Please? He's my friend," Shireen asked again.

Daveth looked at his cousin momentarily before drawing out a blank piece of paper and taking his quill and ink once more. Dipping the quill three times, the Young Stag began writing a series of strokes on the paper. Shireen scooted somewhat closer and tilted her head at a certain angle to see what her royal cousin was writing, only to sit back down once he gave her a particular look with his eyes. She quietly rocked her chair back and forth, waiting impatiently for whatever her cousin's finishing. Finally Shireen noticed Daveth folding his paper in half and stamping a wax seal on the front end before rolling it up and handing it over.

"Give this to your father," he told her. "Tell him it's from me."

Shireen took the scroll, examining the wax seal bearing the sigil of House Baratheon – her cousin's faction: black wax with a golden stag. Once she was certain this was what she thought it was, Shireen got up from her seat.

"Thank you, cousin," she bowed.

Before Shireen could leave the room, to their great surprise, Lord Stannis Baratheon himself enters the room. Shireen paused; she hadn't expected her own father to make his presence known unannounced like this. It was hard to tell what thoughts were developing in Stannis's mind, his cold, hard and firm facial expression made interpretation rather difficult for some. Shireen wondered if her father overheard their conversation and presented the scroll to him, but Stannis looked at her before turning to his nephew as he took the parchment.

"It's not polite to disturb the King, Shireen," Stannis finally broke the silence.

_'He hasn't overheard. Good,'_ Daveth shook his head. "It's no trouble at all, Lord Stannis."

Stannis huffed. "Go back to the  _Fury_  with your mother, Shireen," he told his daughter. "I'll be back shortly. Close the door behind you."

Shireen did as she was instructed, bowing once more and closing the door behind her. Now alone, it was Stannis and Daveth—the two Baratheons. The Young Stag rose up from his seat, not once breaking eye-contact with his uncle and vice versa. The stone-faced elder Baratheon kept a firm look as the youth retained a serious posture.

"I've heard some… disturbing reports about the events that took place on Great Wyk," Daveth informed him. "And most of them revolve around you, uncle. Care to explain to me what happened?"

Stannis snorted. "The enemy was put down. What does it matter?"

"Really? Burning men alive at the stake qualifies as a form of execution? If you mean to kill someone, just put them to the sword and be done with it."

"Never thought of you preferring a quick, clean death."

"And I never thought you as easily controlled, given a man of your experience," Daveth countered.

Stannis felt insulted by this barb coming from his only blood-related nephew. "In a real war, the side with the greater numbers wins nine times out of ten. The ironborn were not soldiers. They do not have discipline or unity, instead opting to fight for their own glory. And they are as barbaric as they are infidels."

"Is that what your red priestess calls them now? Oh, uncle, how I wish you could hear the words spewing out of your mouth right now. At least the Faith of the Seven doesn't burn people alive simply because they worship a different god."

"The Seven have never brought me so much as a sparrow," Stannis retorted. "Prattle at me of how all justice and goodness flowed from the Seven, but all I ever saw of either was made by men. The harsh cruelty caused the demise of your grandparents, Steffon and Cassana Baratheon."

"Such circumstances are beyond our ability to predict or control, Lord Stannis, but we both know you didn't come here just to debate religious philosophy. You came to speak to me about something. So what is it?"

"So be it then. The boy Joffrey, the boy Tommen and the girl Myrcella are not of your blood.  _Our_  blood. All three are bastards born of incest between your mother Cersei Lannister and Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer. They share no blood with us."

Daveth's face morphed into disgust before looking out the window, observing his youngest brother (in reality, half-brother) Tommen walking through the royal gardens with Lady Margaery Tyrell and a couple of guards. He frowned, shook his head and looked over his shoulder back at Stannis.

"I already know that," he said.

Stannis frowned. "And yet you continue protecting them?"

"I exiled Joffrey to the Wall when he continued to disobey me, not because of the truth regarding his true parentage but because he was a cruel, sadistic and evil little shit—by all accounts worse than the Mad King. I've neither forgiven nor forgotten that. But Tommen and Myrcella…" the Young Stag paused briefly, the thoughts and memories of his younger siblings and all the time he spent with them came back to him. Daveth shook his head again. "…Tommen and Myrcella are good, decent children, both of them."

"You need to make a decision regarding them. Such abominations can't continue waddling about like the Targaryens did."

Daveth shot him a long, hard death stare and felt his temper rise. How dare Stannis refer to the two children he cherishes as 'abominations'? Yes, Daveth knew the truth but he shared a close bond with Tommen and Myrcella and vice versa. He raised them, he protected them, he played with them… And for a while, Daveth felt something in his inner conscience snap.

"Now you listen to me very carefully, Lord Stannis," he warned with heat in his voice, "although Tommen, Myrcella and I do not share the same father, we still share the same mother. That makes them  _my_  blood. I've taken care of them myself since they were babes. Fed them, played with them, tutored them, protected them… I've raised them like they were my own. And I will not tolerate any kind of threat against them lightly."

"The Seven Kingdoms need to know the truth," Stannis insisted.

"And by doing so you'd put Tommen's and Myrcella's lives in grave danger!" Daveth almost screamed, his face red with fury. "I don't expect you to understand and I'm most certainly not looking for your approval. They are under  _my_  protection and I will  _not_  see either of them harmed. You will not lay so much as a finger on either of their heads or spread word of this to anyone. Should anything happen to them, I'll know about it. And I won't be as forgiving. You put Tommen or Myrcella at risk and I'll not only strip you of Storm's End but I'll come to Dragonstone and kill you myself."

Stannis and Daveth glared at each other, locked in a staring contest as each sized the other up. The nature of the Baratheon's sigil—the stag—was ever more evident in the room. If neither of them backed down they'd clash antlers until the other lay defeated. The only difference was the Young Stag was half lion, half stag. And Daveth was younger and just as capable, even proving to be battle-hardened like his father and uncles were despite his age.

"Now go," he ordered. "And one more thing: this… barbarism that fire priestess makes you practice? End it."

Stannis frowned deeply, almost as if his lips curled into a snarl. He stormed out of the room, leaving Daveth alone to massage his temples. He was having a bad day and already a headache formed. But he wasn't given a moment to rest as Arya Stark soon made her unannounced entrance known.

"Finally!" she exclaimed. "Been looking for you."

Daveth sighed irritatingly. "What do you want this time, Arya? I'm rather busy."

"Tell your mother to leave Sansa alone!" Arya demanded.

Daveth stopped in his tracks, looking down at the Stark she-wolf making 'demands' of him—especially with that tone of voice. Yet even so the Young Stag worked to regain his composure.

"You'll need to be a bit more specific than that," he replied.

Arya shook her head. "You know what I'm talking about, Young Stag. Your mother's been sending her lackeys to harass my sister non-stop while you were off fighting a war! And it's getting worse now that Sansa's having a baby! You're the King, tell her to stop! By the laws of gods and men, Baratheon and Stark are bound by blood."

_'A very serious accusation; though the Starks are terrible liars and I wouldn't put anything past mother,'_  Daveth thought. "If it were anyone else who spoke to me like that they would've been flogged. But if anything you Starks are terrible liars. And Sansa's my wife, so I'll do whatever I can to end it."

Arya blinked, almost as if she didn't initially believe it. "That's it?" she inquired. "If these don't stop, I'll just handle it my—"

"HEY!" Daveth boomed. "You tell me what she did,  _I'll_  handle it.  _You_  don't do anything."

Arya Stark was fuming, curling her fists into a ball and stormed out the room—not even waiting for another response from her royal brother-in-law. In her mind, life at King's Landing would progress slowly. Arya and Sansa were daughters of the North, yet Arya was more impulsive and quick to react if she felt her family's well-being was at risk. She turned a corner and went down several flights of stairs, dipping to a darkened corner to meet a certain someone.

"A girl has decided on a name?" Jaqen H'ghar implored.

Arya nodded. "Osfryd and Osmund Kettleblack."

"Two names at once?" the Faceless Man assassin seemed amused. "Go on, girl. A man will take care of the rest."

* * *

**At the Master of Coin's chambers…**

* * *

   

Queen Sansa Stark sat with her direwolf Lady whilst listening to Bronn and Tyrion Lannister trading barbs back and forth for a while. They asked for a private audience with her, and the Wolf Queen agreed to meet with them but had mostly been annoyed with the sellsword Commander of the City's watch crude language from time to time. Sometimes Sansa had no idea why Tyrion kept Bronn around; she still did not trust Tyrion for the accusations against the Lannister dwarf for what happened with her brother Bran or Bronn since he is a mercenary for hire. Regardless, Sansa continued listening.

"And so with these sorry fucks disappearing left and right, no other gold cloak seems to have the faintest clue of where to look next," Bronn continued.

Tyrion listened closely, despite his role as Master of Coin. "Odd that so many in Flea Bottom would just vanish like that."

"Which brings me to the next question." Bronn turned to Sansa. "Your Royal Majestiness, I might need to ask for that pet of yours."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Lady? What do you need her for?" she asked.

"Tracking," Bronn answered. "Heard that a direwolf's sense of smell's more acute than that of a normal wolf. Your pet could help us track down the culprit. Wouldn't take too long. What do you say?"

Sansa massaged her temple and rubbed her pregnant belly, thinking closely of Bronn's request—sellsword or no, Bronn was still the Commander of the City Watch. And these suspicious activities at Flea Bottom were slowly spreading to other areas in King's Landing, causing quite a bit of a stir among the populace. The sooner the case was solved, the sooner normality would return.

Sansa petted Lady, scratching its ears. "Go on, Lady. Help Bronn and the City Watch."

Lady's ears perked up and raised itself up. The direwolf sniffed the piece of cloth from the recent crime scene Bronn was holding in his hand, backed away with its snout pointed in the air before letting out a small howl. Lady perked its ears back down and dug its paws into the stone tablets in the floor as Lady made its way out the door.

"Hmm. Smart animal," Bronn mused. "She must've picked up a scent."

Sansa watched Bronn leave the room with Lady and a few gold cloaks in tow. She was confident with her canine companion's keen sense of smell and intelligence; but at the same time Sansa worried about Lady—she already survived a near-death experience two years ago back at the Crossroads Inn back near the Trident of the Riverlands due to the early intervention of her husband's agents. To her surprise, not even Cersei Lannister knew until Lady defended her mistress.

"You worry too much," Tyrion noted.

Sansa looked at the Imp. "Why shouldn't I? Lady got lucky last time, and with these reports from the City Watch… how knows what'll happen."

"I'm sure that things will just blow over and the small folk return to their homes soon enough. Just try not to make a habit of it, Your Grace. I'm more used to Daveth being the one to juggle multiple tasks."

Tyrion remained sitting at his desk, flipping through each pages in the Master of Coin's old legers and books on the Iron Throne's financial records. His emerald green eyes examined each page until he eventually reached his predecessor's. Tyrion squinted closely at the recorded documents he read.

"What is it?" Sansa implored.

Tyrion hummed. "For years I've heard that Littlefinger is a magician. Whenever the crown needs money, he rubs his hands together and, poof, mountains of gold."

"The Master of Coin oversees the royal treasury and advises the King on financial matters, does he not?" the Stark Queen pointed out.

"True, but as it turns out… the money he gathered didn't come from where you thought it would be."

"What do you mean?"

Tyrion sighed, flipping another page. "Before Robert took the throne from the Mad King, the royal treasury was full to the brink. After that, he wasted it all away on tournaments and other 'luxuries' and left the realm with a rather enormous debt."

"Yes, Daveth has mentioned that a few times."

"And while his father gambled away all of the Iron Throne's money, borrowed 6,000,000 gold dragons from my father, and certain trade deals were negotiated and tariffs were imposed and lifted. All done so very quickly to replenish what the Crown had lost."

Sansa felt as if Tyrion was getting to the point of something. "But I thought Daveth had already repaid the Crown's debts to its creditors two years ago after he ascended the throne."

"He did," Tyrion nodded, "a rather great deal, in fact. Must've been planning it for years when Robert was still alive, otherwise the Iron Throne's coffers wouldn't be as full as it was before. Wars swallow gold, but they could be replenished all the same."

"Meaning?"

"As it turns out, it wasn't my father Littlefinger was borrowing money from. It's the Iron Bank of Braavos. Paying  _them_  back was not easy at all."

"How much?"

"Tens of millions, plus 500,000 to the Faith of the Seven."

Sansa blinked in surprise. "How did—?"

Tyrion shook his head. "I honestly don't know. Sometimes I can't understand what goes on in my nephew's head, but it was a relief to get the Iron Bank off our backs. If we failed to repay those loans, the bank would've funded our enemies. And one way or another, they always get their gold back."

"But what exactly  _is_  the Iron Bank? And why Braavos?" Sansa inquired.

Tyrion looked up. "Ah, I see Daveth forgot to mention that part. You see, Your Grace, the Iron Bank is the richest bank in the known world and arguable  _the_  most powerful financial institution of all time. Would-be kings and conquerors alike from Essos and Westeros turned to the Iron Bank for financial backing for their rebellions. 'The Iron Bank will have its due' was meant to remind their clients of the debts they owed them and should they refuse or fail, they would suffer the same fate as their predecessors."

To this, Sansa felt as if it were mind-boggling. How anyone could be under threat from a foreign institution and yet rely on it so much for conquests and other loans was beyond her. Despite having learned to adapt to court intrigue in King's Landing, apparently the Wolf Queen had more to learn. She watched as Tyrion flipped more pages, but suspicion became apparent as his face froze.

"Wait a moment…" he examined the recent leger.

Sansa sat up. "What is it?"

Tyrion didn't say anything, rather he instead closed the book and hopped off his seat. "Pardon me, Your Grace, but I need to inform the King at once."

"Wha—?"

Sansa couldn't even stop Tyrion as he hurried his way out of the door and to Daveth's personal chambers. But judging by the way the Imp hurriedly carried himself, Sansa speculated that something must be wrong—otherwise he wouldn't have departed so soon. Mood swings must also be apparent with her pregnancy, as Sansa cursed aloud and sat back in her seat in frustration.

"You look as if you're under stress, Sansa."

She stood back up upon her name being mentioned, by someone in particular who'd been watching her for quite some time. A man with a pointed chin beard, threads of silver in his hear and a silver mockingbird around his dark cloak looking at her with a sly smile.

"Lord Baelish…" Sansa acknowledged.

"Call me Petyr," he insisted.

"What brings you to King's Landing? I thought you were in the Vale."

"I was, Your Grace… but I figured it would have been more appropriate on my part to convey my condolences."

"Condolences?"

"Ah, so you haven't heard. I'm afraid to inform you that my wife, your aunt Lysa, has passed away."

Sansa froze, blinking a few times as she took in the news of the recent death of her aunt Lysa Arryn. "Aunt Lysa's… what, dead? But how?" she asked in disbelief, yet almost pleadingly.

_'Such a great beauty; if anything her experiences only made her more beautiful than her mother,'_  Petyr thought. "The minstrel Marillion pushed her through the Moon Door, I'm afraid," he lied. "By the time I arrived, Lysa had already fallen. Do not fret, Sansa. The minstrel's been severely punished for his crimes."

Sansa glanced to the side, keeping one hand on her belly. The Greyjoy trial, audiences with petitioners, the investigation into the Flea Bottom disappearances, her mother-in-law's harassments… The Wolf Queen shook her head in disbelief; mental exhaustion feeling as if they were taking its toll on her for the day. Sansa gathered her wits and stood tall, having the societal protocol to carry herself. She is the Queen, after all. She had to be brave.

"And… what of my cousin, Robin? How is he… handling this?"

"Still having a hard time coping with his mother's death, Your Grace, but right now he's learning to further fit into his role as Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East," Petyr told her. "I know how hard it can be to lose both your parents at such a young age. For now, young Lord Robin heeds my advice… and I have always counseled loyalty to the throne."

Sansa Stark looked out the window, glancing down as she saw her sister Arya running around—carrying scrolls of documents, grumbling about Tywin Lannister and other members of the royal family. Her thoughts again as she felt her unborn child kick, a small 'oompf' escaping her lips that made Petyr Baelish raised a curious eyebrow.

"And might I ask how things are going between you and His Grace, King Daveth of the House Baratheon?" he asked.

Sansa raised an eyebrow.  _'Why would he ask me about that?'_  she wondered. "We are doing well, Lord Baelish. Thank you for asking. The last war kept us apart for a long time. I was worried about what he might become, but I was relieved that Daveth exercised a great deal of restraint. I think he's finally learned to let go of the past and move forward."

"That is a relief to hear," Petyr nodded.

"Why are you asking me this so sudden?" she finally asked.

Petyr's face grew serious. "Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motive, I play a little game. I assume the worst. What's the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say or doing what they do? Then I ask myself, 'how well does that reason explain what they say and what they do?'"

Sansa didn't like where this conversation was going. Inherently good people are trusting and forgiving even when they shouldn't be. They're always trying to find the good in people, and some people are simply not good, whether that's Littlefinger or that person down the hall who cannot help from doing the wrong thing. It didn't take long for the Wolf Queen to speculate that this lecture could be more useful to figure out when you cannot trust someone.

"There's also one other thing as well."

"What other thing?"

Petyr stepped closer. "It saddens me that your mother and I parted on bad terms. I loved her more than you could ever know. Given the opportunity, what do we do to those who've hurt the ones we love? In a better world, one where love could overcome strength and duty, you might have been my child."

Sansa frowned. Was Lord Baelish still lamenting about his failed duel against her uncle Brandon Stark and why was he telling her this now? She backed up slowly before feeling her back press against the wall as Petyr looked her in the eyes.

"But we don't live in that world," he continued. "You're more beautiful than Catelyn ever was. The thing that would please me more," he stepped closer, "is this."

Sansa felt Petyr cup her face and pulled her into his arms and suddenly he was kissing her. Taken by surprise, her eyes widened at this sudden act. His mouth was on hers, swallowing her words. He tasted of mint. When Daveth kissed her, Sansa felt only love, warmth and affection. But with Petyr she felt lust and desire. Finally regaining her senses, Sansa wrenched free and pushed Petyr away.

"L-Lord Baelish!" Sansa exclaimed, wiping her mouth with her sleeve. "What do you think you're doing?!"

Petyr straightened his cloak.  _'She's just as Catelyn was back then,'_  he mused. "Kissing a snow maid."

Sansa spat, flushed and angry. "I am a married woman, the Queen! Y-you shouldn't have done that to me!" she was making quite a ruckus.

"Is it wrong for an uncle to want to—" Petyr tried to justify his actions, only to be met with a sharp sting to his cheek.

***SLAP!***

Flushed and upset, Queen Sansa Stark had slapped Petyr Baelish across the face, not letting him finish the sentence. The collision of flesh against flesh made a sound like a cracked whip. Petyr touched his cheek, now bright red and stung fiercely as he watched Sansa run from the room. A small, satisfied grin spread across his face as Brienne of Tarth and Ariyana Dayne came running in after they heard the commotion.

"What in Seven hells is going on in here?" Brienne demanded.

Ariyana eyed Petyr closely. "Why did Her Grace leave the room in such a hurry?" she pressed.

Petyr waived them aside. "Sometimes a death in the family is hard for one to accept," he deceived. "Give Her Grace a moment to gather her wits, and send my regards to the Queen Mother."

Brienne and Ariyana didn't reply as Petyr also left the room, accompanied by his hired guards as he traversed the Red Keep—both the women Kingsguard knights had a suspicious feeling about the Lord Protector of the Vale. Officially they couldn't do anything, not without a say so from either the King or Queen. As Petyr soon left earshot, Ariyana leaned towards Brienne.

"You make sure Her Grace is well," she whispered. "I'll be keeping a close eye on that little man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done. Investigations, secrets and scandals within the halls of the Red Keep. What was your interpretation of each character's actions? What was your take on Daveth's interaction with Stannis? Or Sansa with Petyr's? That last bit has made the Stark girl rather repulsive in comparison to the film or the books; and if Daveth finds out he's going to be BEYOND PISSED. Thoughts? Let me know.


	67. Tragedy Befalls the World

* * *

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

Samwell Tarly and Gilly had already begun preparing a makeshift campfire near an abandoned heart tree. Bundled in a makeshift quilt was Joffrey Baratheon; the exiled Prince had an arrow lodged into his back removed and his injuries tended to, though he still refused any help as his body fought off a chill. Patched up as he was, if they didn't make it back to Castle Black then the mutineers, the cold, starvation… or worse, White Walkers would claim their lives. And they had little supplies remaining, especially with a baby and crows keeping them company.

  

"Here, Joffrey, drink this," Samwell offered his last cup of water to Joffrey.

"P-piss off!" he rebuffed, his voice chilled. "As if a-an arrow in th-the back w-wasn't all I n-need."

Samwell frowned; Gilly, the wildling girl accompanying them, looked rather cross with the exiled Prince's rudeness, yet placed her palm on his forehead. Joffrey felt warm, if not a bit hot. She was certain he had a fever. Once she examined the makeshift bandages with dried blood, Gilly determined that his wound was slowly getting infected.

"If we can't get to the Wall, your friend will die," Gilly pointed out. " _We_  die. The baby…"

Samwell shook his head. "We're going to make it. We all are. I promise."

Gilly felt a sense of relief as Joffrey buried his head under the sheet, his body shook and shivered as the freezing temperature outside dropped. Only the makeshift fire they made could only last so long – considering the supernatural events that have been taking place in the lands beyond the Wall. A wildling army, the return of the White Walkers… all Joffrey could think of was home. King's Landing. He wanted to go home, yet should he ever desert the Night's Watch they would hunt him down and behead him as a traitor. All he cared about was survival—and deeply resented the fact that his own brother banished him to live the rest of his days in a living hell made real.

"Th-this is all D-Daveth's fault," Joffrey cursed. "H-he did this t-to me—!"

"Hush!" Gilly quietly reprimands. "You'll wake the baby!"

"To hell with y-your bastard!" he shouted, causing a bit of a stir.

"*WAAAH!*"

Samwell and Gilly turned to see Gilly's son crying rather loudly, upset at the noise. They had already tried to get the baby settled it—much to their dismay and ire it was woken up again. This was the last thing both Samwell and Gilly wanted as dozens more crows began gathering outside perched on the branches above them, each of them loudly cawing and squawking one by one as the wildling baby continued its wailing. As Gilly rocked her baby, Samwell looked outside and picked up a lit torch.

"Wait here," he signaled.

Gilly shook her head as she held her baby close. "Don't," she pleaded. "Don't go out there."

Joffrey turned to see Samwell leaving. "Are y-you crazy, Tarly?" he coughed. "You know th-those th-things are out t-there!"

Samwell had already made up his mind. "I'll be back. Just want to look."

Despite their protests, the Tarly steps outside and examines the crows. Their flock appears to be growing by the tens in this godforsaken, frozen landscape. Gripping his sword close just in case, Samwell waved his torch around as the crows squawking grew increasingly loud as Gilly stepped outside too.

"Go back inside," he tells her.

Joffrey, still on his side, gripped Gilly's ankle. "Didn't y-you hear?" he hissed, half-disoriented from the fever. "G-get back i-in here!"

Gilly kicked Joff's hand away, looking back at Samwell. The Tarly Night's Watchman continued observing the now-hundreds of crows gathering before realizing something was wrong as they started screeching more violently.

"Go back inside," he repeats. "Go back inside. I'll—"

Suddenly, the squawking immediately ceased. All was quiet. Samwell, Gilly and Joffrey all had a terrible feeling forming in the pit of their guts. Neither of them liked the sound of quiet whilst beyond the Wall. Gilly immediately froze up and held her baby close, her eyes glued in one direction.

***CHITTERING!***

Samwell and Joffrey turned their heads in the direction towards the trees where Gilly's gaze remains locked—horrified at what was coming their way. In the darkness, they spotted a slight movement from behind the trees as more sounds of icy cold chittering and clicking became more apparent. Stepping out from behind cover, a small shine of moonlight offered a full glimpse of the lone intruder: long wispy white hair, glowing blue eyes with pale, gaunt and mummified skin.

"W-W-WHITE WALKER!" Joffrey shouted in fear.

Gilly quivered. "It's come for the baby!"

Samwell turned to see the White Walker approaching, his thoughts turning towards Gilly, her baby… even Joffrey. A wildling girl with a newborn baby in her arms, a brother of the Night's Watch who cannot even defend himself… Samwell felt anxiety and adrenaline flow through him as he dropped the lit torch and tightened his grip on his sword. The fear that filled Samwell was worse than any fear he had ever felt in his life.

_'It's just like the one I saw at the Fist of the First Men,'_  he thought.  _'Mother have mercy, Father protect me…'_  Lifting his sword up, Samwell began shouting. "Stay back! You stay back!"

The White Walker ignored Samwell's demands and continued its approach in order to take Gilly's baby. The undead warrior approached Samwell and calmly grabbed the Night's Watchman's blade in its cold, icy hands. The blade started gleaming with a faint blue glow and emanated a loud noise as if the steel itself was locked in a clash against another before finally freezing and shattering into thousands of pieces.

Now unarmed, Samwell froze as the White Walker backhanded him so hard he went flying further away.

***BAM!***  
  
"Gagh!" Samwell grunted as he fell to the ground hard.

Deciding that Samwell was no longer a threat, the White Walker shifted its attention and returned its gaze towards its prize. The creature's feet made ice-cracking sounds on the crust of the new-fallen snow; like the sound ice makes when it breaks beneath a man's foot. As it grew closer, Joffrey slowly got to his feet and grabbed Gilly forcibly.

"Give it here!" he demanded, his voice filled with fear and desperation. "Gimme that brat! Let the monster take it so it'll leave us alone!" he screamed in her face.

Gilly, still holding her infant close to her, resisted and tried to shake Joffrey off as the baby cried louder. "No!" she shouted. "I won't let it take him! Get off of me!"

Samwell rolled onto his side and saw the scene taking place in front of him. The White Walker was getting closer, Joffrey trying to pry the baby from Gilly and Gilly's shouts and screams as the threat drew evermore closer. It was a scene of utter chaos. Still felt by the urge to protect Gilly, Samwell looked around for anything he could use as a weapon but found nothing. It wasn't long until he felt something sharp poking at his waist.

_'My pack!'_  he realized.

Reaching into his pack, Samwell pulled out a Dragonglass dagger from when his team was digging latrines at the base of the Fist of the First Men before uncovering the caches of dragonglass spear heads as well as other ancient artifacts.

"No! Let go of me!" Gilly continued screaming. "Get away from my baby!"

The White Walker extended its hand, its fingers reaching for the baby as it approached. Fueled by raging levels of adrenaline, Samwell immediately stood up and charged at the undead creature as fast as he legs could carry him.

"Yaaaaah!" he screamed and drove the dragonglass deep into the White Walker's left scapula.

***ROAR!***

The creature shrieked and howled shrilly as it staggered backwards, its arms unable to reach the blade lodged into its shoulder. The White Walker slowly turned around to face Samwell, its skin started cracking at the point at which it was stabbed and let out a sharp screeching cry as its whole body begins crumbling away. Once the White Walker got to its hands and knees, it shatters into pieces and leaves behind nothing but white dust and the dagger itself.

Before the trio could catch their breath, the crows return to their cawing and kept their eyes focused on them. With adrenaline still pumping through his body, Samwell grabbed Gilly's and Joffrey's arms.

"Come on! We have to keep moving to Castle Black!"

"T-there's bound to be m-more of them!" Joffrey coughed.

"I know, but we can't stay here!" Samwell reminded him. "Once we get to Castle Black, we'll send word to King's Landing! Maybe your brother can help us!"

Appeal to the Oathkeeper…? The same person who stripped him of all titles and powers and exiled him to the Wall?  _Beg_  for help? It was never a thing Joffrey would ever consider at any point in his life. Not wanting to waste any more time than is necessary, Samwell dragged Joffrey and Gilly. The three of them make a desperate run for safety as the crows hopped off each tree and gave chase, screaming their hatred.

* * *

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Strolling down the eastern side of Rhaenys's Hill, Queen Sansa Stark was accompanied by her handmaiden Shae and Brienne of Tarth. She had hurried herself out of the Red Keep after the 'kiss' Lord Petyr Baelish gave her nearly three hours ago—Sansa had not spoken to anyone about what Littlefinger had done, not even her husband King Daveth. Moments before leaving the Red Keep, Sansa took a quick bath and dabbed sweet fragrances with a hint of lemon to remove the smell of mint. She just strolled through the Street of Steel in silence.

During the last two years nearly every district in Flea Bottom—including the Street of Steel—had undergone vast renovations Sansa had recognized prior to her marriage. Living conditions skyrocketed; roads were cleaner and were replaced with white marble instead of mud. Thankfully the terrible stench was finally gone. Still, Sansa remained silent. It bothered Shae who quietly nudged her mistress's shoulder.

"Talk to us, Your Grace," she asked. "You haven't said a word since we left."

Even Brienne found the silence rather unnerving. "Did Lord Baelish do anything to you?"

Sansa shook her head, not wanting to remember. "I appreciate your concerns, but I'm fine. It was… nothing I couldn't handle."

Shae didn't believe that. "I still don't believe it. He touched you, didn't he?"

_'When the time is right, I'll… I'll tell you. Just… just please, Shae, just let it be,'_  she thought uncomfortably. "Please, he didn't want anything. Besides, I made sure he got the message if he should ever forget."

"I doubt he'll ever let that slide. Men only want one thing from a pretty girl."

Sansa shook her head. "Littlefinger's not in love with me!"

"Love is not the thing he wants," Shae points out.

The Wolf Queen could barely understand what goes on through her handmaiden's head—though given Shae's 'relations' with Tyrion Lannister, Sansa was beginning to get a pretty good idea as to what her handmaiden was referring to.

"If he does ask you for anything or try anything… fuck, even touch you," she continued, "I want you to tell either me or your royal husband."

"Why?" Sansa asked. "What will either of you do?"

"We'll  _make_  him stop."

"You have my oath as well, Your Grace. As a Kingsguard," Brienne stepped in. "We'll protect you and keep you safe from all harm."

_'I wish I could believe that,'_  the Queen thought. She glanced at the marble stones as they walked through the Street of Steel, her pregnant belly before looking back at one of her two sworn shields. "Lady Brienne…"

"Please, Your Grace, Brienne's enough. I'm no lady."

Sansa let out a small smile. "Brienne, then. Tell me… you were a Kingsguard to my husband's uncle Lord Renly Baratheon, weren't you?"

Brienne blinked and her posture shifted slightly; she hadn't been expecting the Queen to ask her that question out of the blue. She felt somewhat uncomfortable, though, yet suspected that this was an attempt on Sansa's part to change the subject.

"I was," she admitted.

"How did you two meet?"

Brienne inhaled through her nostrils. "When I was a girl, my father held a ball. I'm his only living child, so he wants to make a good match for me. He invited dozens of young lords to Tarth. I didn't want to go, but he dragged me to the ballroom."

"It must have been wonderful. The balls, the masquerades, the dancing…"

"It was wonderful," Brienne smiled. "None of the boys noticed how mulish and tall I was. The shoved each other, and threatened to duel if they thought it was their turn to dance. And whispered in my ear how they wanted to marry me and take me back to their castles. My father smiled at me and I smiled at him. I'd never been so happy," she continued before frowning.

"What happened?" the Wolf Queen asks upon noticing her frown.

"I saw a few of the boys sniggering. And then they all started to laugh, they couldn't keep the game going any longer. They were toying with me. 'Brienne the Beauty', they called me. Great joke. And I realized I was the ugliest girl alive. A great lumbering beast. I tried to run away, but Renly Baratheon took me in his arms. 'Don't let them see your tears,' he told me. 'They're nasty little shits. The nasty little shits aren't worth crying over.' He danced with me and none of the other boys could say a word. And he was King Robert's brother after all."

Sansa nodded her head. "That does sound like Lord Renly. He was very gallant when I first met him two years ago. It still bothers me that no accord could have been reached by him and Daveth. I cannot begin to imagine what it must have felt for either of them."

As Sansa and Brienne continued trading banter, Shae's eyes looked up as she saw a suspicious individual hopping from rooftop to rooftop as they further ventured into Flea Bottom. The Lorathi woman felt suspicious about the stranger's activity, even sometimes ignoring her mistress's talks.

"Who knows, Your Grace," Brienne continued. "Maybe had the peace talks went smoothly both sides might've gotten something to gain in the long run. Even some in the Stormlands were against the conflict, though we were surprised when His Grace gave his lords another chance."

Sansa looked up at her. "And your thoughts on him now?" she asked.

"Who?"

"My husband."

"I only met him one time when he made a lord's progress across the Stormlands with Renly six years ago. He seemed… distant, like he didn't want anyone to get too close. I suppose that was understandable, considering what happened to him as a child. You perhaps know more about him than I do, Your Grace."

"And now?"

Brienne looked as if deep in thought. "After coming back from the Iron Islands? He seems to have grown more as a person. He still broods, sometimes."

_'Daveth would have been shaking his head if he heard that,'_ Sansa thought rather amused.

Brienne observed Sansa's improved behavior and how she was starting to cheer up. Whatever happened back at the Red Keep seemed to have been somewhat forgotten, though the Tarth Kingsguard still suspected what unacceptable conduct might have occurred when Lord Petyr Baelish stood in the room—though her senior officer Ariyana Dayne remained behind to investigate.

"So…" Brienne tried changing the subject, "have you and His Grace decided on a name yet?"

Sansa opened her mouth, but a commotion was seen around the corner and the growing crowd grew increasingly larger.

"Someone get help!" one of the residents called out.

"That looks bad."

"Get the children away!"

"Stay in your homes!"

The Wolf Queen pushed further inward, wondering what the commotion was about. Despite Shae's and Brienne's protests, Sansa proceeded to venture into the crowd; calmly pushing and maneuvering her way around them, she finally got to the center of the gathered crowd and what Sansa saw shocked her beyond belief. The scene laid before her was almost a savage butchery; a squad of twelve gold cloaks lay dead in a puddle of their own blood, several of them cleaved in two or disemboweled brutally. Ser Bronn was still alive, though judging by the looks of him he'd been beaten badly.

"Well, *cough cough* that was… that was quite a disaster," Bronn mused.

Sansa's eyes shifted from Bronn to the thing that shook her to her very core. Her eyes widened and her body trembled and shook; a large canine with grey fur and yellow eyes was savagely butchered and its corpse laid bare for all to see—its fur tainted with blood and nearly decapitated. This was a direwolf!

"LADY!" Sansa cried out, rushing to the fallen direwolf. "By the Gods, NOOO! LADY!"

Brienne and Shae managed to catch up, pushing dozens of onlookers away as they witnessed the Queen wailing hysterically over the body of her direwolf. Shae immediately rushed to her mistress, asking questions and pulling her aside as Sansa cried deeply onto Shae's shoulder. The Lorathi woman held her close, gently patting Sansa's back and hushing soft words into her ear. Brienne felt a pang in her chest at witnessing a young woman cry in despair and grief; Sansa hadn't cried this hard since her father Lord Eddard Stark died a year ago. The Tarth Kingsguard observed two onlookers helping Bronn to his feet and approached him.

"What happened here?" Brienne inquired. "Who did all of this?!"

Bronn grunted as he held a palm to his head. "I… it happened so fast, I…" he said slightly disoriented.

"Wait!" one of the onlookers pointed. "One of 'em gold cloaks is still alive!"

Brienne turned and saw a dying gold cloak letting out a small gurgle, coughing as he gasped for breath. She pushed aside several Flea Bottom residents and knelt down.

"Are you all right? What happened here? Who did this?"

"*cough, cough!* N-not eno… enough time to… to react, I—" the gold cloak said in agony.

"Damn it, talk to me!" Brienne snapped whilst trying to retain her composure.

"He-he… came out of nowhere, and I… *cough, cough!*"

"Who's 'he'?" Brienne asked.

The City Watchmen held a hand up. "The… the Mount—" his throat gurgled before finally going limp, succumbing to his injuries.

Brienne cursed under her breath; her ears still picking up the sounds of Sansa's crying and the small folk's gossip over the crime scene. Shaking her head, Brienne looked over her shoulder to see another squad of City Watchmen arrive. Each of them stopped and looked on in shock and surprise at the carnage.

"Get Ser Bronn of the Blackwater to the barracks and tend to his wounds!" she ordered. "The rest of you, get these people out of here!"

It took some convincing, but the gold cloaks finally did as they were instructed and began demanding order. They were moving to push people away from the scene, removing the bodies off the street and escorting their commander to the local barracks. Brienne only managed to get one word out of the dead gold cloak, replaying the word over and over again in her head.

"The Mount…" she uttered quietly before turning to Shae. "Get the Queen to her chambers. I'll go inform the King what's happened here."

Shae tried desperately to get Sansa to move, but she didn't want to leave her direwolf behind like this. Lady's life was saved before back at the Crossroads Inn, but it looks as if luck finally ran its course. Another platoon of gold cloaks arrived to enforce order and established a perimeter in Flea Bottom. Finally, Shae got a grieving Sansa to her feet and calmly escorted her back to the Red Keep; the Wolf Queen still cried and called out 'Lady' over and over again. Brienne looked back once more before finally marching on her own.

_'We'll make arrangements for Her Grace's direwolf to be buried at Winterfell,'_  she thought with a chill settling in her gut.  _'The Mount… the Mount…'_  She repeated before finally stopped in her tracks.  _'The Mountain! Gregor Clegane!'_  Her eyes widened in realization. "He's here…"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather somber cameo short story; Joffrey Baratheon escalates an already deadly conflict with the White Walkers with Samwell Tarly saving the day and on a sadder note, Queen Sansa Stark's direwolf Lady was brutally cut down. Although her life was saved several chapters ago, luck eventually runs out at some point. Everyone's favorite sellsword Ser Bronn of the Blackwater did indeed survive, but got a rather nasty beat down himself. I reckon they were ambushed and caught off-guard. But one of the gold cloak lived long enough to give out a clue before kicking the bucket. Expect future chapters to escalate even further as things finally come to a head! How will the King himself react when all of this reaches his ears? Thoughts? Let me know.


	68. Spring the Trap

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

King Daveth I Baratheon strolled through the halls of the Red Keep, accompanied by his advisors from the Small Council: Varys, Oberyn Martell, Pycelle, Barristan Selmy, Tyrion Lannister and Randyll Tarly. Each of them had been conveying their most recent reports, from economic growth to law enforcement to military affairs; it's been a rather trifling day for the Young Stag as he not too recently just came back from the Tower of the Hand—a requested meeting with his grandfather and Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister. In his hands was a load of documents and other records given to him by his uncle Tyrion—insisting that it was of upmost importance.

"Embezzlement, unwarranted borrowing… To think that all of this had been going on behind our backs for years and almost none of us even knew about it until just recently," Daveth mused. "Would someone care to explain to me how this crucial information like this slipped through our fingers?"

"I'm afraid that no man can be in all rooms at all times, Your Grace," Varys pointed out. "I have many little birds, but even they cannot simple pick up a scent or sing songs as fast as one might hope."

The Young Stag sighed. "Every paper, every coin… everything leaves a trail that leads to somebody. Although I'm pleased the Master of Coin brought this urgent matter to my attention, it disappoints me that it took so long."

Tyrion noticed. "A trail? My dear nephew—"

"You will refer to him as 'Your Grace', not 'nephew', Imp," Randyll chided.

"His Grace knows I meant no disrespect, Lord Tarly," he corrected himself. "I only meant that such misuse of the crown's finances often warrant a thorough investigation, lest our enemies at home and abroad will no doubt see what had transpired."

Oberyn chimed in. "There is also the issue of the disappearances around Flea Bottom. Where it was once the poorest of slums now rose to be more pleasant and livable, fear now grips the district. The common folk are afraid to even leave their homes for they think they too would be next."

"And as Master of Laws, that would mean if someone of high or lowborn origins is indeed responsible for both these events and moved with such subtlety they would be criminally prosecuted and be at risk of forfeiture if not face the King's Justice first," Daveth concluded.

"Um, uh, a-a disturbing case to follow," Pycelle spoke up, clinking his chain with each step. "Unsightly. But might I recommend caution, Your Grace? I-if someone was indeed responsible, and they ha-had influential patrons, then th-the further repercussions—"

"Being too cautious during my absence allowed these incidents to spread like wildfire; yet if we move too impulsively then we risk alerting the perpetrator. Solve one problem, another pops up. We'll have to be rather discreet if we are to keep the king's peace."

Randyll decided to include another matter. "There is something else. We received a raven bearing message from Ser Alliser Thorne of the Night's Watch, says it's about the savages beyond the Wall."

"The wildlings?"

"Somewhat less wild these days," Varys said. "Seems they've stopped killing each other and started following this King-Beyond-the-Wall."

Daveth shook his head in disbelief. "Seven hells," he cursed with irritation. "First Renly, then Balon Greyjoy, now this… King-Beyond-the-Wall? How many more must we deal with? Did Ser Alliser mention anything else in his report?"

Randyll nodded. "He's asking for more men, weapons and supplies if they are to man the other walls. The other sixteen castles have been abandoned for centuries. Only the Shadow Tower, Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea still stand."

"And did the Lord Commander second that notion?"

"Information is rather sketchy, but I'm afraid that Mormont's gone off with a ranging party beyond the Wall and we've heard no word from them since so we cannot say for certain."

Pycelle scoffed. "Eugh, the northerners are a superstitious people."

Daveth shot a quick glance over his shoulder. "Our new Queen is from the North, Pycelle. They are many things, but I fought with them on the field and they're anything but liars. In fact, they are terrible at it."

"Oh, I… I meant no offense, Your Grace—"

"But you did," he interrupted before turning to Randyll. "Our soldiers have fought two wars and are already tending to their fields, gathering the harvests before the crops turn now that winter's come."

Tyrion decided to chime in. "I don't know what to believe, but I've seen the Wall for myself two years ago, Your Grace. And here's a fact for you: the Night's Watch is the only thing that separates us from what lies beyond the Wall."

_'Never took you as a military man, uncle. I've seen you fight myself,'_ Daveth looked at Tyrion. "Then what do you recommend?" he asked.

"Institute a draft from Dorne to Last Heart, a conscription of any able-bodied volunteer and send rations and armaments to the Wall as a show of good faith."

Each step they took down the halls as they continued their conversations, Daveth held one fist to his chin as his eyes examined the documents still in his other. Glancing over the findings Tyrion discovered of embezzlement of the royal treasury and word of a possible wildling attack on the Wall, the Young Stag could hardly shake off a growing headache. Still, Daveth appeared to be deep in thought.

_'Queen Alysanne Targaryen financed the Night's Watch re-construction with her own jewels, yet the New Gift's local populace isn't as numerous as it was during the reign of King Jaeherys the Conciliator,'_  he reflected.  _'The wildling raids made supplying the Wall rather difficult, yet…'_

"Your Grace?" Tyrion asked again.

Daveth shook his head. "Give the order," he said. "Send word to Lord Jon Umber at Last Hearth and be sure to send a raven to Dragonstone; instruct Lord Stannis that he is to deliver the supplies to Eastwatch by ship."

"And the Flea Bottom activity?"

"Prince Oberyn and I will deal with the matter personally."

Tyrion nodded. "It will be done. Now, onto other important matters—"

Before Tyrion could further continue, around the nearest corner approached Shae and Brienne of Tarth. Judging by the way they were carrying themselves, they had been awaiting the King's arrival for some time and had a look of urgent determination about them.

"Your Grace," Brienne spoke. "Please forgive me for disturbing your day, but I must ask that you come with me at once."

"Whatever it is, Brienne, I—"

"It's your wife."

Daveth stopped mid-sentence and looked at Brienne, lifting an eyebrow as the Kingsguard knight dropped the ball and mentioned Queen Sansa Stark. But the way she spoke of her and the posture she was using, the Young Stag knew that Brienne was not playing games at all. She was deadly serious.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked, a hint of concern noted in his voice. "What happened to Sansa?"

"There's been an incident in Flea Bottom. Some of the City Watch have been slaughtered, Ser Bronn still lives but is recovering. However, Her Grace's direwolf… was found mauled and beheaded."

Daveth frowned and furrowed his brow. He knew of Lady, and how the direwolf had adopted her mistress's dainty manners and trusting nature. Grey fur and yellow eyes, she was the smallest of the litter of pups House Stark discovered two years ago. Daveth managed to save Lady's life back then from Joffrey and his mother and kept her in hiding, yet remained aware of her existence. Each of the direwolves externalized characteristics reflected from their respective masters and symbolized what possible fate laid in waiting.

"There's more," Brienne continued.

Before Daveth could say anything, Brienne pulled the Young Stag close enough to whisper into his ear. Oberyn, Randyll, Tyrion, Pycelle, Barristan and Varys each leaned in—curious as to what the King was being told. They didn't need to say anything else as Daveth's facial expression switched from concern to serious.

"Are you certain?" he whispered.

Brienne nodded. "I swear by the Old Gods and the New," she whispered back affirmatively. "We had a witness who lived long enough to identify the culprit responsible."

Daveth looked back at his advisors. "It appears we'll have to speed things up," he told them. "Gather everyone in the throne room ASAP and begin preparations. Bar the gates to the city, seize every ship in the harbor…  _No one_  leaves or enters the capital."

"Nephew—"

"NOW!"

All of the King's advisors, including the very few he trusted, recognized whenever the Young Stag was about to snap. He couldn't encourage such swift action unless he was absolutely certain that something was amiss. Once they were out of sight and out of earshot, Daveth demanded that Brienne take him to Sansa. The Kingsguard obeyed and led him throughout the Red Keep into Maegor's Holdfast, the royal bedchamber where the Wolf Queen was most likely at. The doors to the room were opened and Daveth stepped inside; Sansa laid on her side with her back facing him, Arya Stark and their mother Catelyn soothing her. The faintest sound of sniffing had filled the room, and Daveth made his approach.

"Sansa…" he called out.

Sansa didn't budge, yet only Arya and Catelyn met the King's gaze. They didn't say anything as Catelyn tended to her eldest daughter whilst Arya coldly stared at him. Daveth somehow expected such a reaction from them but entered the room regardless to sit at Sansa's bedside.

"Lady was—" Arya tried to speak but was cut off.

"I know," Daveth said. "Brienne told me everything."

Sansa's eyes were red and puffy; stains stuck her cheeks when she finally shifted her position to look up to meet her husband's gaze. She looked so miserable yet no tears came. Perhaps she had spent them all of her tears for Lady and her father. Daveth hated seeing his wife like this, gently brushing her cheek with his thumb.

"Sansa? Talk to me."

Sansa wiped her eyes with her sleeve, ignoring the sting and redden discomfort. "Your Grace," her voice slightly cracked. "Forgive my appearance. This is… Oh, Gods, this is just hard."

"I understand. I know how much Lady meant to you."

"She was good. My father and brothers found her with six others near Winterfell two years ago," she sniffled quietly. "Lady was so sweet. She didn't bite anyone, never got in the way… she was good. I know you saved her life back at the Crossroads Inn, but…"

"Do you need more time for yourself?"

Sansa shook her head and grasped Daveth's hand in her own. "No," she declined, "please stay."

_'Even in grief, she still has a sense of innocence… what's left to salvage,'_  he thought. "As it pleases you, Your Grace." Daveth squeezed her hand. "Will you be okay?"

Sansa shook her head. "No. But I'll find a way to cope."

"Of course, but understand that you not need to endure it alone. I'm here for you, whenever you need me."

Daveth noticed Sansa shifting her position again, thinking that she might turn away from him. He wouldn't blame her after all. To his surprise, however, Sansa slowly pushed herself upwards—keeping one hand firmly on the bed and the other on her pregnant belly, groaning slightly. Arya and Catelyn moved to ensure Sansa wouldn't harm herself given her condition. The Wolf Queen slowly lifted her head up. She looked tired, emotionally worn out and her pregnancy wasn't making it any easier on her. But Daveth looked in her eyes and noticed something else stirring up inside her.

"The gold cloaks, Ser Bronn… they—"

"Bronn will live," he told her. "And we now have a suspect. We know who's behind those disappearances in Flea Bottom."

Arya got in his face. "Who?" she demanded.

"Arya!" Catelyn scolded, pulling her aside.

Daveth remained serious. "Ser Gregor Clegane, the Mountain," he answered.

The Starks' eyes widened; the Mountain is here in King's Landing? The very same Gregor Clegane whom Daveth bested in the joust during the Hand's Tourney? That towering, lumbering behemoth had been on the run from the law for the past two years and he just happens to waltz right back into the capital without anyone detecting him? Gregor wasn't known as a subtle man and preferred the more brutal, bloody blunt approach. Whoever smuggled him into King's Landing obviously had powerful connections.

"How did—?"

"I have a few theories, but I'll need to verify them with the Master of Laws so as to be certain first. Varys will also have a hand in it. Discreetly."

Catelyn leaned on her son-in-law. "And should they be legitimate?"

Daveth stood up. "Then you're about see why people call me 'Oathkeeper'." He turned back to Sansa. "I won't force you to do anything considering recent events, Sansa. Not unless you're absolutely certain—"

"I am," she replied.

The Young Stag was taken slightly aback by Sansa's bold proclamation; arguably starting off as one of the most naïve of the Stark children and a slow learner when they first met, Sansa had long since progressed into becoming a little cleverer and a little more shrewd under Daveth's tutelage. The Young Stag is still somewhat pleased that despite the hardship she endured, Sansa still maintains some of her prior innocence though not to the same degree as the girl she was after leaving Winterfell so long ago. Even the loss of Lady proved not to be enough to break the Wolf Queen.

"I'm ready."

Daveth nodded, his face still expressing a serious tone as he made his way towards the door.

"What will you do now?" asked Catelyn.

The Young Stag looked over his shoulder to his mother-in-law. "What should have been done a long time ago," he said chilly.

It felt as if the deepest corner of the seven hells would freeze over if the Starks could even comprehend what thoughts lurked in Daveth Baratheon's head. Even his own in-laws felt a chill crawling up and down their spines. As he walked away, eyes full of fiery determination, a faintest possible frowned curled upon the Young Stag's face. Politically risky and one that weighed heavily on his heart and soul, but there was no going back now.

* * *

**In the throne room…**

* * *

Cersei Lannister felt pleased with herself. When her handmaiden Bernadette informed her of the direwolf's passing, the Golden Lioness felt a sense of victory landing in the palm of her hands. She had longed to be rid of the beast and inflict emotional torment on the younger, more beautiful, well-loved popular Queen Sansa Stark. She couldn't resist hiding her gleam, even in private; but when she was also informed that there was a summons to attend a public hearing, Cersei allowed herself a moment to attend—interested on what her estranged eldest son had to say.

"One's choice of companion is a curious thing, isn't it, Your Grace?" Petyr inquired.

Cersei scoffed at the notion. "Most curious, Lord Baelish. Look at Lysa Arryn for instance. A sorrily repellent woman."

"Perhaps, but Lysa was a good woman once. A kind woman."

"We both know she was neither of those things," Cersei pointed out. "Still, I pity her son. How fortunate that the young Lord of the Vale has a new father to counsel him. And how unfortunate that such a scandal revolving the Stark Queen would emerge so soon after the King himself returned from the battlefield."

"A long extended period of time spent apart from one another would certainly drive some… to seek the comfort of another," said Petyr.

He was referring to the kiss he had given to Sansa Stark almost yesterday—and the protestations and physical assault that came with it. Still, as much desire as he felt for Sansa since Catelyn angrily renounced all ties with him, the Lord Protector of the Vale shifted his attention from one to another. Cersei, meanwhile, felt this would create a deepening rift that she believed would be enough for Daveth to set Sansa aside.

"Still," he continued, "do you believe it is wise to further provoke the Young Stag? If he were to discover the truth…"

Cersei arrogantly brushed him off. "He will be none the wiser. As distant as we are, I still know my son better than most."

"I would counsel patience, Your Grace."

"'Patience'?" she snapped at him. "I lost everything I had to that girl, Daveth becomes more like Robert with each passing day."

"Yet we all determine our own course once children reach adolescence," Petyr mentioned. "A difficult part of growing up, to be sure, but all children rebel against their parents."

"Forgive me, Lord Baelish, but you have a reputation as a money lender and brothel keeper, not a military man nor a philosopher. The Baratheons are steadfast in pursuing their goals and won't back down."

"But if the royal marriage is annulled, name Sansa Stark as my new bride," Petyr suggested.

Cersei looked at him suspiciously. "I'll speak to my father once this hearing is done. Have him issue a decree."

"I'll not rest until the lion flies over King's Landing."

"And I'll know you're a man of your word when I see the Stark girl gone."

"As I said, Your Grace, I live to serve."

This was a politically risky move on their part, but Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish were busy manipulating and using the other for each of their own gains. Cersei wanted the Iron Throne and Petyr wanted Sansa. She yearned for power, the other yearned for one of the most beautiful women for himself. As they finally arrived to the throne room, it was a lively scene.

Lords and ladies had assembled into the room, with banners bearing the sigil of Houses Baratheon, Lannister, Tully, Arryn, Tyrell, Velaryon, Stokeworth and other noble houses of across the land. Lord Yohn Royce represented House Arryn while Lord Robin toured the Vale, the Blackfish represented House Tully while Lord Edmure was away at the Twins. Lord Mace Tyrell and his son Ser Loras and daughter Lady Margaery stood in one of the galleries; the number of courtiers had swelled rapidly upon receiving a royal summons. Among the VIPs, Queen Sansa Stark stood with her mother Catelyn and sister Arya. Cersei noted that they had not noticed her presence—either unaware or ignoring her. Cersei noticed her uncle Ser Kevan Lannister among the crowd.

"There is to be a royal announcement?" she asked.

Kevan nodded. "There is."

Cersei turned to proceed towards the throne, but was stopped by her uncle.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asked his niece.

Cersei frowned. "To stand by my son," she answered.

Kevan shook his head. "Your son is in his majority. You will remain  _here_."

Cersei hated being told 'no', especially from members of her own family. Glancing upwards at the Iron Throne, each of the royal councilors: Varys, Oberyn Martell, Pycelle, Barristan Selmy, Tyrion Lannister and Randyll Tarly made their way to the side, with the Hand of the King Lord Tywin Lannister standing in the front. All the murmurs began picking up, more as the courtiers saw King Daveth I Baratheon himself approach the Iron Throne. Eyeing the crowd thoroughly, Daveth sat down on the throne—his hands brazing against the pommel of one of the swords before composing himself.

"Lords and ladies of the court," he announced. "When the realm thrives in times of peace, our houses grows and prospers. When we are faced with war, the chaos of uncertainty and imbalance threatens us all. No doubt many of you still feel the sting of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. Although war abroad has been brought to an end, the same cannot be said of what lurks in the shadows."

Each of the gathering nobles turned to one another, wondering what the King was talking about. What threat? What danger exists that so many are unaware of? Was it the Targaryen girl in Essos? Or something else?

Daveth continued. "Upon further investigation overseen by the Master of Laws, Prince Oberyn of House Martell, it has come to our attention that a traitor walks amongst us."

Gasps were heard, eyes glanced back and forth. What traitor? What was the Oathkeeper walking about? Cersei Lannister delighted at such a scene; like a herd of sheep, they looked as if they were being stalked. A lion doesn't concern themselves with the opinions of the sheep. Petyr Baelish eyed them more closely.

Oberyn Martell cleared his throat. "Bring the prisoner in," he called out.

All eyes turned down the hall to see two gold cloaks bringing Theon Greyjoy into the main hall. Sansa, Arya and Catelyn were stunned. Daveth just agreed to spare his life, so why was he bringing in Theon?

"What the hell?!" Arya yelled.

Catelyn pulled her aside as all eyes glanced on the Starks. Sansa looked momentarily confused, looking at Theon before looking up at Daveth. He noticed this and motioned for her to stay put, giving a 'Trust me' look on his face. Sansa, although not happy with this, reluctantly stood aside. Daveth looked down at Theon.

"Do you know why you were called here?" he asked.

Theon shook his head, noticing the glares around him. "No. You promised me my life if I cooperated, which I did. Yet I'm supposed to believe you intend on keeping your word after dragging me here?"

"How dare you speak to your King in that matter?!" one of the onlookers shouted.

Tywin coolly lifted a hand up, demanding silence. Once it was quiet, the hearing resumed.

"My duty as King of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm demand that I act in accordance with the laws of gods and men," Daveth replied. "That I defend the realm from any seeking to harm us and destroy those who betray us."

Theon shrugged. "Then get on with it already," he said finally out of patience.

Cersei found this act amusing, considering the last of the Greyjoys being on trial again. Perhaps she will indeed get to see a Great House wiped out before her very eyes after all.

Daveth glanced down. "As it was in the days of Baelor the Blessed, the Father judges us all. If you break his laws, then you shall be punished accordingly. You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you respond to the charges…"

He paused before glancing to his right.

"…Lord Baelish? Mother?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter ended on quite the cliffhanger; the scene is now set for what appears to be the ultimate Game of Thrones showdown in the next chapter. Loyalties are tested, bonds strained… and the Oathkeeper himself now turns his sights towards those he distrusts the most. But what do you guys think? Was it an easy decision to make? And what do you guys believe will happen in a Cersei Lannister – Daveth Baratheon showdown? Thoughts? Let me know.


	69. Throwing Down the Gauntlet

* * *

**In the throne room…**

* * *

   
 

"You stand accused of murder, you stand accused of treason. How do you respond to the charges… Lord Baelish? Mother?"

The assembled lords and ladies gasped in shock and surprise, each of them trading occasional glances at one another before all eyes of the court soon turned towards both Lord Petyr Baelish and Queen Mother Cersei Lannister; even some of Daveth's own Kingsguard—including Lord Commander Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Jaime Lannister—and advisors were caught off guard by this display. The Hand of the King, Lord Tywin Lannister, coldly looked at his grandson in curious suspicion. What sort of madness had overcome the Young Stag?

Petyr and Cersei equally stiffened, as everyone who gathered from the Vale to the Reach in the throne room looked at them. One by one, they appear to be in what the Oathkeeper was suggesting. For once, the former Master of Coin and Queen Mother are on the outside of things and, as if caught in a bad dream, cannot speak for a moment.

_'Has the boy gone mad?'_  thought Cersei incredulously.

Jaime blinked for a moment, stun turning into disbelief as he looked at his twin sister and nephew and back to his sister again.

"Wha—?"

Ser Lucius Blackmyre broke the silence. "The King has asked you a question, Your Grace; you as well, Lord Baelish," he reminded them.

Cersei could feel the weight of every eyes staring at her, and a sudden shiver of disbelief went through her, could as ice. Petyr, meanwhile, reluctantly stepped forward.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," he said, "I'm a bit confused—"

"And what confuses you, pray tell?" Daveth tilted his head slightly to the left, mirroring how his mother Cersei did. "Hmmm, let me see…"

Raising his right hand, the Young Stag snapped his fingers loud enough for an echo to travel across the throne room. The Master of Laws, Prince Oberyn Martell, let out a small smirk as he reached into his sleeves and unveiled an approximate forty-five documents before handing them over to the King. Daveth eyed them before returning his gaze to his former Master of Coin.

"At first, the list of crimes you've been accused of initially started off as money laundering. Embezzlement, forgery, fraud, extortion…"

"I fail to see how any of this relates to—"

Tyrion chimed in, reading off the list. "Stealing large sums of gold from the mines of Casterly Rock owned by House Lannister, Highgarden owned by House Tyrell, the Iron Bank of Braavos…  _and_  the Iron Throne owned by the King himself. Shocking, I know, but surely as a smart man and Master of Coin you must've known that it was bound to leave a trail at some point."

Murmurs echoed throughout the room; Lord Tywin himself frowned deeply as he looked coldly at Petyr Baelish. Stealing from the lions of Casterly Rock was a very serious offense; if looks could kill, Littlefinger would have been dead times beyond counting. But Daveth wasn't finished quite yet.

"But then we stumbled upon something  _very_  interesting," he continued. The Young Stag's mocking tone quickly turned serious. "You're very discreet about how you've been conducting your dealings, Lord Baelish, but you're motives weren't. During the investigation, we acquired a list of people you've come into contact with and scrolls that were kept in tightly sealed compartments. Inside was a small vial purchased from a Lysene merchant: the tears of Lys."

Prince Oberyn took the moment to join in. "A rare and costly poison," he explained. "Clear, tasteless and ordorless. Hence it is easier to hide. Once dissolved in wine or water, it eats at a man's bowels and belly. He dies in agony which will not appear unusual if the victim is old and sickly. Not only is it difficult for the intended target to detect, its effects are subtle enough that they are easily mistaken for a very sudden and severe fever."

"Wh—" Petyr tried to speak up before being cut off again.

"You orchestrated the murder of Jon Arryn, Hand of the King and Warden of the East two years ago by having Lysa pour the tears of Lys into his cup, telling her to write a letter to Catelyn Stark and pinning the blame on House Lannister for the deed with the intent on sowing chaos," Daveth said accusingly, his voice filled with heat. "Do you deny it?"

The assembled crowd gasps in shock and horror. The Vale delegation, however, was absolutely furious when they heard. Petyr blinks again as he stares at Daveth, unable to process what's happening. How does he know this? He turns and sees Lord Yohn Royce and the rest of the Vale delegation staring coldly at him. Tyrion shuddered at the memory of being imprisoned at the Eyrie.

"And when you were done and had no further use of her," he continued, "you pushed Lysa through the Moon Door all so you could effectively seize power in the Vale. Do you deny it?"

Catelyn's eyes widened in shock and anger as she glared intensely at the man she once called a friend; pain filled her, having no idea what had transpired in the Eyrie until recently. He murdered her sister? The amount of disbelieving outrage was beyond comprehension to the Tully-turned-Stark matriarch. Sure, her younger sister Lysa was characterized by her capacity for jealousy, envy, malignantly willful and subjective to fits of anger that were often unjustified, and delusional, Catelyn still thought of her sister as being shy, sweet and kind during their youth.

"That little spat between the Starks and Lannisters, the one I put an end to, it was you who started it. Do you deny it?"

Normally Petyr Baelish was one of the coolest cucumbers in the garden, calm and composed always thinking a few steps ahead, but even now he starts to sweat. The Young Stag was armed to the teeth with information he believed he couldn't possibly know. Antlers, teeth and claws… they were sharpened and more than ready for a fight. The former Master of Coin was certain he absolutely covered his tracks well.

Petyr shook his head. "I know of no such letter," he denied. "And whatever my beloved Lysa might have said or done, she was a troubled woman. She imagined enemies everywhere. When she committed suicide, it shattered us all."

"That is a lie!" a woman shouted.

As the crowd murmured at this sudden outburst, Petyr turned his head and noticed it was Eleana, Lysa's former handmaiden, who stepped forward from the Vale delegation to confront him.

"I was there when it happened! I heard everything Lady Lysa said in this very chamber not long after she reaffirmed the Vale's loyalty to the Iron Throne," Eleana revealed. "And I was present at the Eyrie when it happened. My mistress was an odd fish, yes, but she adored her son Lord Robin. Lady Lysa didn't commit suicide, Lord Baelish, you pushed her through the Moon Door and pinned the blame on the minstrel Marillion right in front me!"

Loud gasps echoed throughout the halls; not only of the accusation but with someone claiming to actually witness the event taking place. Lord Tywin coolly eyed the young woman up and down to determine whether or not she was telling the truth. Daveth, meanwhile, having remembered the exact details of what she had informed him months earlier nodded his head at Eleana's testimony.

The Young Stag raised his hand up, quieting the commotion. "The North, Vale, Riverlands and Westerlands are not only places affected by the wrong you've inflicted on them, Lord Baelish," Daveth said calmly, "but the Reach as well. Not long after Renly Baratheon's death during his rebellion, you embarked on a secret mission to the Stormlands to plant the seeds of deception in the head of the heir to Highgarden, Ser Loras Tyrell."

More gasps were heard; but none more so than the Lord of Highgarden, Lord Paramount of the Reach and Warden of the South himself, Lord Mace Tyrell, who was perhaps the loudest of them all… and the angriest.

"How dare you, you pompous, little—!" he seethed; trying and failing to control his anger but was held back by his daughter Lady Margaery.

Daveth continued. "It didn't stop there. Before you left, you met up with fourteen of your Reach contacts and arranged for the assassination of the Hand of the King Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, the Queen's own father. Thanks to your treachery he suffered mortal wounds during the Battle of Blackwater Bay and lost his life not long afterwards," he stood from the Iron Throne. "Do you DENY IT?!" he almost shouted, getting increasingly angry as he spat out the accusations one-by-one in detail.

Queen Sansa Stark, her Arya and their mother Catelyn's eyes equally widened in shock before their faces were mixed with grief at this stunning revelation. The first one to lash out was Arya, who tried to attack Petyr Baelish but was physically restrained from doing so by Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ariyana Dayne.

"Murderer! Let go of me!" Arya shrieked in anger.

Lord Tywin observed the commotion. "Take the girl to her chambers," he ordered.

Catelyn shook with grief and anger, her hands shaking as she approached the two Kingsguard demanding them to release her youngest daughter. They obliged and released their grip, allowing Catelyn to embrace Arya and lead her away—all while maintaining an angry glare at Petyr.

"Wait!" Sansa halted. Her face still filled with sadness at the memory of her father Eddard Stark's passing; placing one hand on her heart and the other on her pregnant belly. "There is something else that needs to be made known: Lord Baelish made an unwanted advance on me the other day. Despite my protests, he…"

Daveth blinked in surprise. Now  _this_  was something he did not know about; but when he heard Sansa retell what Petyr had done to her, Daveth was absolutely livid.

"He did what?" he demanded.

"He kissed me," she said, shocking the royal advisors and her handmaiden. "The more I struggled in his grasp, the tighter his grip became. I pushed him off of me and ran. I… I know I should have brought this to your attention sooner, but…"

"That's all I needed to hear," Daveth concluded. "Well, well, Lord Baelish. It seems you just added sexual misconduct to the list. On own my wife, no less. What do you have to say for yourself?"

The walls were beginning to rapidly close in on Petyr Baelish, but he appeared to have finally had enough. As he understands the list of accused crimes were being brought into the open, he was not going down without a fight.

"I deny it and recognize none of these proceedings," Petyr remained adamant in his defense. "None of you knows the truth of what happened—"

"'Sometimes, when I try to understand a person's motive, I play a little game. I assume the worst'," Sansa repeated Petyr's own words. "What's the worst reason you have for trying to tear me and His Grace apart? But that's what you do, isn't it, Lord Baelish? That's what you've always done. Turn family against family. That's what you did to my mother and aunt Lysa. And that's what you and Cersei Lannister tried to do to us."

"Give me a chance to defend myself. I deserve that much."

Neither Daveth nor Sansa showed any hint of mercy. Seeing this, Petyr turned and approached Lord Yohn Royce post haste.

"I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie," he ordered.

Yohn stares at Petyr. "I think not," he coldly refused. He would behead the man himself, given the specific crimes Petyr committed against House Arryn and knowing he is a bad influence on Jon's only surviving child Robin Arryn.

Cersei watched as the events unfolding before her as she cast an angry glare at her pregnant daughter-in-law; how dare this untested girl challenge her authority like this. She was a Lannister, a lioness. A Queen, she told herself, and Lord Tywin's daughter. Cersei could hardly stand to look at Sansa before noticing her firstborn son's attention shifted in her direction.

"And you, mother," Daveth spoke calmly. "Do you have anything to say in your defense?" he asked.

Cersei shook her head, looking to her father and her twin brother Jaime for support. Surprisingly, none moved to her defense; Tywin wanted to know what his daughter was accused of before making a decision and Jaime was a Kingsguard, unable to intervene no matter how much he might want to.

"And what are the charges I am accused of?" she demanded.

"Treason," he said simply. "Such actions include harboring a wanted fugitive, conspiracy, sedition, regicide…"

Regicide was considered one of the most severe crimes in the Seven Kingdoms, the deliberate act of murdering one's own king. Whispers and murmurs further spread among the courtiers once they heard the word 'regicide' included in the list of charges against the Queen Mother. Anyone accused of killing a King is believed to be cursed. Because the King of the Andals and the First Men is blessed by the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven at his coronation, it is considered a heinous crime in that religion to kill the King; even when the King is a reviled tyrant.

"Lies," Cersei rudely dismissed. "A lie from the lips of those who seek to ruin our family," she stares at Sansa. "They want to tear us apart, take the throne—"

"…and  _incest_."

Appalled gasps were loud at the last charge; an offense even Tywin Lannister himself could not possibly even ignore. Jaime, meanwhile, gulped silently to himself—had the adulterous affair with his twin sister been discovered? Cersei immediately stopped midsentence when Daveth announced the last charge.

"Do you deny them?" he asked.

Cersei shook her head. "I do deny it!" she shouted. "Not one shred of truth. I deny it."

The gloves were off at this point. Any shred of a mother-son bond had been completely eroded. The Golden Lioness against the Young Stag/Black Lion half-breed; each of them brought their teeth and claws to bear, ready to tear into each other at what Cersei believes to be a farce. She believed Daveth had been looking to rid himself of her for quite some time, but she maintained a belief that a Lannister will repay their debts in the end. Daveth continued looking at Cersei, not once breaking eye-contact with his mother. Eventually, he drew himself backwards once he noticed something in the way Cersei stared at him.

"Do you know what?"

"What?"

"Your pupils dilate and contract ever so slightly before you lie. But you knew that, mother. And since you continue to maintain such a pointless charade, you leave me no choice. The Crown calls upon Lancel Lannister!"

Tywin felt increasingly incensed as the court heard footsteps, bare skin against the marble ground approaching the Iron Throne. Cersei glanced over her shoulder as the individual came into view. Lancel wore a ragged tunic made of wool, his long hair was cut short, his eyes cast down and didn't lift his eyes—but Cersei, Jaime, Tyrion, and Tywin recognized him.

**ooOoo**

> _Yesterday…_
> 
> _King Daveth massaged his temples; the trial had been endearing and longed for a moment's reprieve. Walking alongside him down the hallway was his great-uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister. They had been discussing recent events and the status of Casterly Rock's gold mines—one the Young Stag hadn't expected to hear._
> 
> _"Wars swallow gold like a glutton at a feast," Kevan reported. "Although the Crown's treasury remains full, I must sadly report that Casterly Rock's gold mines have run dry."_
> 
> _Daveth shook his head. "Unbelievable. The Westerlands possesses more gold and silver mines than the rest of the other six kingdoms combined; one of the largest is beneath Casterly Rock itself. How are the Lannisters supposed to pay for anything if they have no gold?"_
> 
> _"Tywin suggests that House Tyrell is our family's true rivals in terms of resources, yet we'll need them on our side in the long run."_
> 
> _"The Reach is the most fertile land, I understand that. Tell me, uncle Kevan, what of the six million gold dragons grandfather loaned to father? I thought that debt was already repaid."_
> 
> _Kevan nodded. "It was, Your Grace, but in the end that alone only served to stall for time. All that remains are our silver mines. Investing the Tyrells and the Crown will help a great deal."_
> 
> _Daveth raised an eyebrow, implying he knew what his great-uncle was referring to. "You mean the betrothal of Lady Margaery and my youngest brother, Prince Tommen?"_
> 
> _Kevan nodded. "Yes, Your Grace. Has the Lord of Highgarden remain in support of the match?"_
> 
> _"He does, yes; the ponderous oaf was still determined that his daughter marry into the royal family. Yet…"_
> 
> _"Your Grace?"_
> 
> _"Tell me, uncle Kevan, how old is your daughter?"_
> 
> _"Janei? She's sixteen, Your Grace. Why?" he asked curiously._
> 
> _"This might save House Lannister a lot of trouble down the road, provided we play our cards right," Daveth murmured. "Why don't we arrange a match between her and Lord Tyrell's heir, Ser Loras?"_
> 
> _Kevan blinked. "Your Grace, are you quite certain about this? This is my daughter we're talking about."_
> 
> _"I know that, and I wouldn't make such a suggestion lightly but what other choice is there? This is for the sake of the family."_
> 
> _Kevan shook his head. "I'll see what I can do."_
> 
> _The two continued trading banter until a barefooted man in a robe walks up._
> 
> _"Your Grace," he spoke politely._
> 
> _Daveth shook his head. "Whatever it is, I have no time for—" he paused momentarily and looked at him, narrowing his eyes as he inspects him for a moment. "Cousin Lancel? Is that you?" he asked in disbelief._
> 
> _Indeed, this had been quite a change since they last saw each other since the Battle of Blackwater Bay last year. Lancel wore a ragged tunic made of wool, his long hair was cut short, his eyes cast down and didn't lift his eyes. But what changed drastically about him was how Lancel carried himself and his tone of voice._
> 
> _"I apologize for my son's appearance," Kevan spoke apologetically._
> 
> _Daveth shook his head. "No, no. That's fine."_
> 
> _"Can I speak with you? In private?" Lancel asked._
> 
> _Daveth raised an eyebrow, curious as to his second cousin's sudden request for a private audience. The Young Stag had a lot on his plate and was in a hurry, but turned to his great-uncle._
> 
> _"Please deliver the terms to Lord Tyrell," he told him. "And should the Queen of Thorns herself decide to get involved, inform me at once. I'll take care of it."_
> 
> _Kevan nodded and left the room, leaving Daveth and Lancel alone._
> 
> _"All right, Lancel, what do you want? I'm very busy right now," he pressed._
> 
> _"Can you forgive me?"_
> 
> _Daveth raised an eyebrow in curiosity before narrowing his eyes. "Something's not right. You've never spoken to me like that before. Not in that tone. What could you possibly have done to promptly ask for my forgiveness after being gone for so long?"_
> 
> _Lancel let out a steady exhale. "I led your mother into the darkness, cousin."_
> 
> _"What are you…?"_
> 
> _"I tempted her into our… unnatural relations, before the Battle of Blackwater Bay."_
> 
> _Daveth opened his mouth but stopped once Lancel's words reached his ears. He had a difficult time trying to process what sort of change had overcome his second cousin, but when he said 'unnatural relations', that brought any grinding gears in his head to come to a full stop. He eyed Lancel, studying his movements and measuring the tone of his voice very carefully to determine whether or not he was being truthful or lying._
> 
> _"Clarify," he demanded._
> 
> _"I never… Never spilled my seed in… in her… womb."_
> 
> _"You… fucked my own mother?" suggested Daveth; he felt his fingers twitching feeling betrayed. Lancel, Jaime… how many more? "Did you force yourself on her?" he quietly demanded._
> 
> _Lancel shook his head. "No. She brought me into her chamber, offered me a place in court, a knighthood, and… All flesh is weak, cousin. No harm came of our sin. No… no bastard."_
> 
> _Daveth instinctively felt the sudden urge to throttle Lancel, still paying close attention to his words. Once he was certain that Lancel was in fact being truthful, Daveth felt as if his world was flipped upside down and felt his stomach twist in knots; surprised, and a bit angry. He cannot believe what he's hearing._
> 
> _"And, of course," he continued, "there was the King. His boar hunt. His wine."_
> 
> _Daveth blinked. He had remembered two years ago that his father King Robert I was away on a hunt, only to be gored by a boar's tusks. Robert was drunk, but the flask Daveth smelt was way too potent and still filled the room whilst Robert was on his deathbed._
> 
> _"What did you say…?" Daveth hissed, feeling his anger beginning to boil and tried to contain it as best as possible._

**ooOoo**

Daveth was looking at his mother with harshness. Cersei still maintained her composure even as her cousin approached the foot of the Iron Throne. Jaime and Tyrion were rather perturbed at the state of their cousin, but Jaime was rather upset. Cersei slept with Lancel behind his back? How? Why? And when? He never lain with another woman except for his sister; but to hear that she had taken multiple partners to bed, it somehow made him wonder how much he actually meant to her.

"Lancel Lannister," the Young Stag spoke up, "do you swear by all the gods that your testimony will be true and honest?"

"Yes, I swear it."

"Please inform the court of your relations with the Queen Mother."

"We are cousins."

"This woman stands accused of harboring a wanted fugitive, conspiracy, sedition, regicide and incest. What do you know of this?"

"When I was named King Robert's squire, I was told to obey her in everything," Lancel answered.

"And you are aware of the rumors concerning her, yes?"

"Yes."

Cersei glared at Lancel, feeling her anger boiling dangerously high. She tried to speak out, but one glance from Tywin told her to stay quiet.

"Witnesses said that you were anointed as a knight not long after the death of King Robert. Care to explain how that came to be?"

Lancel glanced at Cersei before turning back to Daveth. "The Queen Mother invited me into her chambers. Took me to bed with her, comforting after your father the King died as a way of thanking me for what had happened with his wine."

"Lies! All of them!" Cersei shouted, prompting the courtiers to murmur before Lord Hand Tywin Lannister's voice boomed across the room.

"Silence!" shouted Tywin.

Daveth raised his hand up again. "The Queen Mother is not recognized at this time," he shouted. "Continue. What contents were in King Robert's wine?"

"It was a large dosage of fortified strongwine, about three times as potent as normal," Lancel explained. "She told me to give it to him before he took us on a hunting trip in the kingswood. Even one sip was more than enough to slow the King's reaction down long enough for the boar to mortally wound him. The Queen Mother hated King Robert. She wanted revenge for the… whoremongering, infidelities and physical abuse throughout their seventeen-year marriage."

Gasps rung throughout the court; Daveth furrowed his brow, exchanging glances between Lancel and his mother.

"So you confessed that you did have a role in my father's death? All of it was done on  _her_  orders?"

Lancel nodded remorsefully. "I did, Your Grace. I know that nothing I say cannot undo the evil I've done, the sins I have wrought… I found peace in the light of the Seven and will pray to the Mother for forgiveness."

"LIES!" Cersei shouted, finally going mad at the accusations being thrown at her. "I carried you in my womb for nine months; I brought you into this world, I gave you life, I cared for you when you were sick… and this is how you repay me?!" she shrieked.

Sansa Stark was taken aback by Cersei Lannister's outburst, feeling shivers running up and down her spine. The Wolf Queen slowly backed away as more courtiers exclaimed more cries of appalls and outrage. For all her attempts at subtly, Cersei had finally been sent over the edge. Even Jaime was caught off-guard with Cersei's madness, but…

"Enough!" Daveth shouted, finally having had enough and stood from the Iron Throne. "Cersei Lannister, do you wish to confess?"

Cersei glared at her eldest son. "'Guilty'?" she gave a faint laugh. "Is that what you want to hear from me? I know now that all of this is an act. A farce! I am your  _mother_ , Daveth. Do you even grasp the gravity of what you are doing? The lies you heeded that wormed its way into your skull?"

The Young Stag shook his head shamefully. "And how many times have  _you_  lied to me?" he rebuked her. "I see now that my existence meant nothing to you. You disappoint me, mother… for the last time."

Petyr recovered from his initial shock and returned his gaze to the Iron Throne. "It saddens me that you do not trust us, but this rash act certainly confirms our suspicion that you do not plan on letting us leave."

Cersei seemed to pick up on this. "So if it's the truth you want, it's the truth you shall have… though not by the judgment of men," she boldly stepped forward. "I demand a trial by seven! For both of us!"

The lords and ladies of the court erupted in a frenzy at the proclamation as King Daveth I Baratheon, Lord Petyr Baelish and Queen Mother Cersei Lannister never broke eye-contact with the other. As the royal advisors rushed to Lord Hand Tywin Lannister, with the exception of one, Sansa Stark traded glances between her mother-in-law and her husband. The situation had escalated incredibly quickly. Jaime visibly troubled and shook his head, knowing full well what losing a trial by seven could mean.

The audience became louder and began to point and waived their hands in the air at the words. Cersei ignored them; a cold determination crossed her fair features. Prince Oberyn Martell quietly observed the invocation of the rare 'trial by seven' with great interest. Daveth, meanwhile, blinked only once and found himself staring down his mother with cold blue eyes; the same with Petyr Baelish, but with even greater intensity. For once, the Young Stag was stunned into silence. He had hoped for a confession, but did not expect his own mother to invoke a trial by seven. Regardless, Daveth was determined to see this through to the end.

"So be it."

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, don't you think? And how about that – a trial by seven, the first since Ser Duncan the Tall! How did you guys interpret the how list of accusations and crimes Daveth threw at both Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish? More importantly, who do you guys think will be chosen to represent the claimants and defendants? Send some suggestions as to who you guys think (or at least hope) might be included. Thoughts? Let me know.


	70. Champions of the Defendants

_**A/N:**  All right, guys, considering the Season 3 section has been going on for a really long time I figured it was about time to move on from that and begin Season 4. Keep in mind that by the end of S3 it was around the end of the last month; so if there are any questions about any lapse in the Game of Thrones timeline – hit me up a PM and I'll do what I can to clarify some things._

* * *

**YEAR 301 AC**

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Two days had passed since the announcement of a Trial by Seven of Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish. Since then, word had spread throughout the city of King's Landing to Casterly Rock in the Westerlands. Theon Greyjoy offered to remain behind to watch the trial as a spectator, but one cold glare from King Daveth I Baratheon caused him to back down and retract his statement. The lone Greyjoy was to sail to White Harbor with Catelyn and Arya Stark. And so it was done.

Ser Jaime Lannister—knight of the Kingsguard, twin to the Queen Mother and uncle of the King—strode down the stairs of the White Sword Tower, through the Great Hall until he reached his destination: Maegor's Holdfast, where the infamous Kingslayer walked up the steps before arriving at his nephew's private chambers. Pushing the door open, Jaime saw Daveth looking over the balcony with his arms crossed.

The Young Stag looked over his shoulder to see who entered his room after the door was closed behind them, and silence filled the room after the latch made a quiet click.

"Uncle," he simply said.

Jaime still felt increasingly unnerved about the recent events that took place in the throne room. He loved his twin sister Cersei, but the sudden yet stunning confession that their cousin Lancel had a sexual escapade with her behind his back which shook his faith in her and doubt the severity of his love.

"Your Grace."

"I take it grandfather was… livid?"

 _'You have no idea,'_  he thought to himself. "'Livid' would be a monumental understatement as to how furious he was."

"Not surprising. Grandfather seems to value the future and legacy of House Lannister above all else," Daveth admits. "But you didn't come here to discuss that. Why have you come?"

"There's nothing you wouldn't do, is there?"

"Excuse me?"

"Daveth, Cersei's your mother and you just condemned her to death," Jaime mentioned.

"I know that! And yet she betrayed me all the same; just as she betrayed grandfather, the family… and  _especially_  you." The Young Stag approached his uncle. "I know the truth."

Jaime blinked for a moment as if looking perplexed. "Whatever do you mean?"

"About you and mother," Daveth revealed as he leaned against the table. His voice was quiet and never broke eye contact. "My brothers Joffrey and Tommen, my sister Myrcella… they were neither royalty nor were they true Baratheons. They're  _your_  bastard offspring."

The Kingslayer felt his posture shift slightly, enough for the Young Stag to notice. "Well how convenient for you, nephew," he said with his voice equally quiet. "Indeed, a rather bold claim. Want to trade gossip like a bunch of fishwives or something?"

Daveth rolled his eyes. "Spare me the japs, uncle. You're better than that."

Knowing he wasn't going to bluff his way out of this one, Jaime finally became serious. "If I was a father to any of my children, they'd be stoned in the streets," he finally confessed.

"And you know I'd never let that happen. Not while I rule."

Jaime blinked again. Now this was something he hadn't been expecting. "Then why didn't you say anything beforehand?"

The Young Stag inhaled through his nostrils. "Joffrey was and has always been an evil little shit, but Myrcella and Tommen…" he stopped. Daveth briefly glanced at a small painting depicting a portrait of his younger siblings he kept on his desk. "Myrcella and Tommen are good, innocent children. You know that I love them both. And you know that I would give my life for them to keep them safe. Which is why I haven't said anything. Not just for your sake, but for them."

"Why do I feel like there's a 'but' coming on?"

"But you need to understand that the woman you've been bedding is nothing more than a monster. She's been using you from the very beginning."

"To you she's evil, sure," Jaime's said defensively. His instinct was to defend family—no matter their crimes; though the Kingslayer wasn't so certain this time. "But whatever Cersei's done, whatever you think she's done, it was all done to keep her children safe."

Daveth shook his head. "You weren't here when Renly Baratheon took up arms against us, uncle. You didn't see what she did, what she's been doing this whole time. Haven't you been paying attention to what Lancel said? Mother has done things I never thought possible. She will be the end of you if you don't break free of her."

"Possibly. Not much to be gained from discussing it with you though, is there?"

"No, I suppose not," the Young Stag sighed in resignation. "You were always the stubborn Lannister." Daveth turned to leave the room, but stopped briefly to look back at his uncle. "Have you ever wondered why I kept you around in spite of everything that's happened, uncle? After what we went through?" he asked.

Jaime opens his mouth but quickly closes it, not sure what his nephew's getting at. Curious experience has taught him not to interrupt Daveth when he gets philosophical.

"Humor me," he answered.

"Because out of all the Lannisters relatives…" the Young Stag began, "I believed that you of all people still retained at least a certain sense of principle; that it's never too late to choose to become more than what you claim to be. But should you choose to continue going down this road… then simply pray to the Crone. Now excuse me, Ser Jaime. I have preparations to make."

Daveth left the room without giving his uncle a chance to retort. Jaime simply watches his nephew walk out to leave him to his thoughts. He simply hated it when people used words to worm its way into his head and disliked it even more when only a select few aimed straight for the center of his being. 'Kingslayer', 'Oathbreaker', 'A man without honor'… such aliases deeply bothered him. It was all he lived by. Taking a moment to look out the window, Jaime watched as the waves crashed against the shore.

"My bloody honor is beyond repair," Jaime murmured to himself. "Damn it, Daveth, why do you insist on putting these thoughts in my head?"

It was a slight tact of admission on Ser Jaime Lannister's part; he loves his sister, but at the same time isn't blind to what Cersei was becoming. Admittingly, he was still upset about Cersei sleeping around with other men behind his back. He slammed his fist on the balcony and turned around to leave the room, ignoring the pain in his palm.

* * *

**In the black cells…**

* * *

Cersei Lannister kicked and screamed, confined in the black cells whilst one of her trusted agents gathered a list of suitable candidates to represent her and Petyr Baelish in the trial by seven. Where she once wore an attire worthy of the Lannister name and of royalty, Cersei now wore a roughspun shift—one she tore into pieces until it was raggedy and worn out. The cells were cold and dark, as well, a realization the disgraced Queen Mother learned far too late as she began to shiver. Cersei had screamed and kicked and howled until her throat was sore, at the door and at the window.

No one shouted, nor came to rescue her from her confinement. There was a blanket on the pallet in the corner, a threadbare thing of thin brown wool. It was rough and scratchy, but it was all she had. Cersei huddled underneath to keep from shivering.

The only visitor who came to see her was her own uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister. But the visit was not a happy one. In fact, he remained absolutely furious at his niece ever since the trial at the Red Keep. Ser Kevan looked older than when she'd seen him last. He was a big man, broad in the shoulder and thick about the waist and short gray hair in full retreat from his brow. A heavy woolen cloak, dyed crimson, was clasped at one shoulder with a golden brooch in the shape of a lion's head.

 _"You think I care about what you have to say?"_  Cersei remembered Kevan yelling at her.  _"Lancel is my son, Cersei! Your own cousin! If I am angry with you, that is the cause. You should have looked after him, guided him, found him a likely girl of good family. Instead you corrupted him! Tainted him! Stained the Lannister name for generations to come like a common whore!"_

After that, Ser Kevan slammed the cell doors shut behind him with a loud bang. Cersei brought her knees close to her chest, shivering again as the doors opened up. Stepping inside was Qyburn, tall, grey hair and a lean frame with slightly stooped with crinkles around his warm, brown eyes. The disgraced former maester lit a torch, its flame illuminating light in the cells.

"Your Grace," Qyburn bowed. "The trial will take place within the fortnight. By now I've managed to find seven suitable candidates to represent your case."

Cersei slowly stood and approached Qyburn. "This whole debacle is nothing more than a mere farce. All of it lies."

"Of course, Your Grace. My concern is that the Oathkeeper has a different standard when it comes to overseeing a trial. And I hope you'll excuse me for saying it, but the damage the accusations you have been accused of and the overall details of it all has been seen as overwhelming."

"I wish you'd said it sooner," she replied. "Any word from Jaime?"

Qyburn shook his head in disappointment. "He's taken your… ahem, 'affair' with Lancel Lannister a bit hard. He's refused to leave the White Sword Tower."

"Not once?" She stared at him, uncomprehending.

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace. Regardless, it seems your father Lord Tywin has planned to publicly disown you should the trial end either way."

Cersei blinked.  _'Disown me?'_  she thought in disbelief.  _'He cannot do that! I am a Lannister, I am the Queen, not some caged animal to be used and tossed aside!'_  She fumed. "Tell him I need to speak to him," she demanded quietly.

"I implored him to visit you, but he would not."

"What about my youngest son, Tommen? If you can visit me then surely he can—"

"Your arrest at the King's order, the Prince has not taken well. He remains in his chambers; his servants often find his food in the hall. Left untouched."

 _'Daveth did this to him,'_  Cersei suspected. "Talk to him again. Convince him to come and see me, come and see his mother."

Qyburn sighed with deep, hesitant resignation. "I tried, Your Grace, but the King forbade me from coming anywhere near him. He forbade me from seeing anyone."

Cerse's angering madness continued boiling. "I brought him into this world. Raised him, fed him at my own breast instead of handing him over to the wet nurses… If Daveth expects me to kneel and beg his forgiveness he's sorely mistaken."

"Your Grace?"

"Never mind that," the Golden Lioness dismissed. "Who have you found?"

"Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Morgarth and Ser Lothor Brune have agreed to represent both Lord Baelish and yourself as your champions in the trial by seven," Qyburn explained. "The remaining four include Lester, Ser Lyonel Frey, Ser Addam Marbrand…"

"And the other?" Cersei asked.

Qyburn smiled and looked back at the door. Loud footsteps made their approach into the black cells, causing Cersei Lannister to look upwards at her seventh champion. A mad, cunning smirk crept upon her face as she recognized him. Bearing his chest and spotted with three drips of blood down his muscles on his naked chest and strong arms, towering over her was the same man she smuggled into King's Landing months earlier.

"Ser Gregor," Cersei welcomed. "Welcome and thank you for coming so quickly."

The Mountain nodded slowly.

"I'm pleased that you still remain in good form," the Queen Mother complimented.

"Who am I fighting?" Gregor's booming deep voice spoke.

Cersei tilted her head. "Does it matter?"

Gregor shook his head 'no', completely confident that his sheer size and brute strength alone was more than enough to scare off any challenger. Cersei let out a faint laugh; a trial by seven—a variation of trial by combat an offended party can demand during trial. Linked to the Faith of the Seven and Andal tradition, the Andals believed that if two teams of seven champions fought on each side, the gods thus honored would be more likely to see justice done—yet the invocation of a trial by seven is considered very rare.

As with a normal trial by combat, the accused and accuser each have to pick six other champions - though each also has the option to not fight in person but to name a seventh man as their personal champion. Per the rules, a trial by seven can only end when all seven men on one side have been defeated via surrender or death. Throughout the history of Westeros, only two known trials by seven had ever occurred: the first trial involved Maegor "the Cruel" Targaryen 259 years ago and the other involved Ser Duncan the Tall nearly 100 years ago.

Cersei felt a wave of overwhelming confidence at her list of chosen champions. For sure she was certain she could win the trial by seven with Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane at the helm of her team.

 _'You'll see soon, Daveth,'_  she thought wickedly,  _'and you as well, you usurping Stark bitch. No one takes what is mine. One way or another, a Lannister always pays her debts.'_

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather quick chapter, but this one only reveals the list of champions chosen to represent both Lord Petyr Baelish and Queen Mother Cersei Lannister in the upcoming trial by seven. What do you guys think of the selection? And also was the moment when Daveth finally told Jaime that he knew Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen are actually his children instead of Robert's. But what was you guys' interpretation of what the Young Stag said about his uncle? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> Last thing to bring up: who do you guys think Daveth Baratheon will select to represent the Crown in the trial by seven?


	71. Champions of the Claimants

* * *

**In the White Sword Tower…**

* * *

 

Overseeing the large white weirwood table, Ariyana Dayne of the Kingsguard sat on the edge of the furniture—trading occasional glances out the window while polishing her family's ancestral longsword Dawn, brushing an oiled whetstone on each side of the blade. A trial by seven had just been declared, and each side was busy gathering their selective champions to fight on their behalf to determine the guilt or innocence of Queen Mother Cersei Lannister and Lord Protector Petyr Baelish. It had been a long time since she had to put her martial skills to work; and there had been murmurs surrounding her of whether the new Sword of the Morning would actually take part in the trial by seven and live up to her family's legacy. There hasn't been another since her uncle, the legendary Ser Arthur Dayne himself.

Tall and already renowned for her great beauty, Ariyana brushed a strand of her long dark hair behind her ear as she maintained a focus on her sword with violet eyes. In the past two years since arriving at King's Landing, she had to work hard to overcome a rather indignant stigma on account of her gender to earn the respect of her male peers. Looking up, Ariyana gazed upon the nearest mirror; clad in gold-enameled armor depicting seven silver swords encircling a golden crown and white cloak. And a noticeable pendant she wore around her neck bearing the sigil of House Dayne—a white sword and a falling star on a purple field. The Sword of the Morning placed the whetstone down onto the table and held the pendant in her hand. Ariyana gently closed her hand around it and held it close to her heart.

"Stars fall, we rise…" she spoke softly.

The pendant Ariyana wore around her neck was of more sentimental value rather than one of wealth. Indeed, it was all she had of her past life. Any momentary distraction was disturbed once Ariyana heard the door leading out of the White Sword Tower clicking and its hinges creak. She looked to see Lord Commander Barristan Selmy entering the room.

"Lord Commander," Ariyana stood in acknowledgment.

"Ariyana," Barristan replied. "I take it you've heard what had transpired?"

"There is to be a trial by seven; a very rare form of trial by combat though it's not without precedent. King Maegor the Cruel was challenged by the Faith Militant, and Ser Duncan the Tall by Aerion Brightflame."

Barristan nodded, impressed by his subordinate's knowledge.

"Has the King asked you to be one of his champions?" she asked.

"He has, yes," the old Kingsguard knight answered. "Ser Lucius, Brienne of Tarth and myself will take part. Horrid practice as it is."

"And what of the Kingslayer?"

Barristan raised an eyebrow. "Ser Jaime? He hasn't said a word to anyone yet, though his indecision only makes me question if he takes his vows seriously enough."

"King's blood or no, the man profaned his blade with the blood of the King he had sworn to defend," Ariyana scoffed. "Sometimes I wonder why His Grace ever chose to keep him on."

"Even so, it's still not our place. We swore to guard the King, not to judge him."

"And how many Kings came and went during your time, Lord Commander?"

"Long enough," he confessed. "All I ever wanted was to life a life of honor, to defend a King worthy of service. I burned away my years fighting for terrible Kings, yet a man of honor keeps his vows."

"Even if meant serving a drunk or madman?"

"Even so. I failed the past Kings I swore to protect, but I will not fail to protect this one."

"Because you believe this King is the one worthy of service?" she asked.

Barristan remained firm. "I trained Daveth myself since he was a boy. I might disagree with some of his methods, but I could tell he's learning from his past mistakes."

Ariyana rolled her eyes; this old man was stubborn and determined to continue his pledge. "And remind me, Lord Commander, how exactly did a knight of your stature end up becoming a Kingsguard?" she changed the subject.

Barristan shifted slightly. "I sought out and killed Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre pretenders, during the War of the Ninepenny Kings," he explained. "Poor fool believed his Targaryen blood gave him a claim to the Iron Throne. I made sure his blood claimed nothing more than the dirt around his corpse on the Stepstones. The King at the time was Aegon of House Targaryen, the Fifth of His Name. He was the one who elevated me to his Kingsguard more than 42 years ago. Until the tragedy at Summerhall…"

"I heard the stories. The King tried to hatch ancient dragon eggs with sorcery and wildfire, only it ended with the deaths of himself, his heir, Ser Duncan the Tall and so many others."

"One of the many popular theories, though we still don't know how it happened. I still remember that day. I wasn't at King Aegon's side, nor could I have done anything to save him. I had hoped his son Aerys would be different, but he went mad after 20 years."

"Ah yes, the infamous Mad King. Aerys of House Targaryen, the Second of His Name. Even to this day Dorne still hasn't forgiven him for how he treated Princess Elia Martell," Ariyana shook her head, redirecting her attention to polishing Dawn.

Ser Barristan noted her disapproval, yet did not push. He did, however, notice the locket hanging around her neck. It was now  _his_  turn to change the subject. "A memento of yours?" he asked.

The Sword of the Morning blinked for a moment before recognizing that the Lord Commander was pointing towards the pendant she wore around her neck.

"It belonged to my mother," she answered. "It's all I have left of her."

Barristan was curious. "Were the two of you close?"

"I hardly remember her, Lord Commander. She died when I was very young. What's worse is that I have only faded memories of her."

"I'm sorry to hear that. What about your father?"

Ariyana shook her head. "I don't know. Probably dead."

"You said you were from Dorne. And that sigil… was Starfall your home?"

"Yes, though I grew up at Sunspear. Prince Doran Martell was kind enough to take me in after my uncle Ser Arthur Dayne died."

Barristan blinked and was taken aback. "Your uncle…? Then that means…  _you_  are Ashara Dayne's daughter?"

Ariyana looked at Barristan and nodded. "I am."

_'Gods I thought she looked familiar. She looks just like her,'_  he thought. "I met your mother during Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal, during the Year of the False Spring."

"You did?" Ariyana did not know what else to say. "What was she like?"

He hesitated. "Perhaps it's not my place…"

"Tell me."

Even after all these years, Ser Barristan could still recall Ashara's smile, the sound of her laughter. He had only to close his eyes to see her, with her long dark hair tumbling about her shoulders and those haunting purple eyes. Ariyana has the same eyes.

But Ashara had thrown herself from the top of the Palestone Sword—the tallest tower in Starfall—onto the cliff atop the sea soon after she was informed of her brother Ser Arthur's demise at the hands of Eddard Stark at the Tower of Joy, mad with grief for the brother she had lost, the daughter she had unintentionally abandoned and perhaps for the man who had dishonored her at Harrenhal as well. Her body was never found. She died never knowing that Ser Barristan had loved her. But how could she? He was a knight of the Kingsguard, unable to marry, father children or inherit lands and titles. The girl he was promised to marry wed his cousin. No good could have come from telling Ashara his true feelings, yet no good came from silence either.

"Your mother… was a lady-in-waiting to Elia Martell," Barristan started. "A young maiden not long at court, she was renowned for her great beauty. Long hair—as dark as the night skies—and haunting violet eyes; Ashara Dayne was a woman so beautiful many men were infatuated with her. You look just like her."

"So I've been told, Lord Commander."

"She was a good woman, Ariyana. Your mother loved you unconditionally."

"But not enough to be there for me," she mused. "I guess it was my uncle's death that broke her."

Barristan thought deeply about what Ashara Dayne might have said to her daughter had she still lived to this day; but who could be certain. He merely watched Ariyana stood from the table, Dawn in her right hand and unsheathing a second Westerosi longsword in her left. Ariyana spun the two blades around in a fluid, circular motion before thrusting both swords forward—the tip of each one barely tapping against the mirror itself. The way she moved, Barristan reminisced how Ser Arthur Dayne himself practiced before a fight. The fighting styles were nearly identical.

"I suppose I should get moving," Ariyana said, making her way out the door.

Barristan watched her closely. "Where are you going?"

"I am the last of House Dayne, Lord Commander; the Sword of the Morning like my uncle Ser Arthur Dayne before me. And as a Kingsguard, my house dies with me. But only I will decide  _how_  it ends."

Barristan looked at Ariyana, noticing a fiery spark in her eyes was steadily growing into an ember. There was something in the stony Dornishmen that seemed to scream out.

"Tell His Grace King Daveth that I will be one of his champions," she requested.

* * *

**In Daveth's chamber…**

* * *

   

"I'm telling you, nephew, this is either bold or suicidal," Tyrion Lannister exclaimed.

Daveth Baratheon polished his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer; his thoughts still focused on the upcoming trial by seven, the first to be invoked in nearly a century; the third overall. He merely sat down cleaning his blade whilst listening to his dwarf uncle making his thoughts plainly known.

Beside him was a wooden mannequin donning a newly unveiled set of unique plate armor of ornate design; jet black as the original, but offered more durability and flexibility without impeding the movements of the joints—particularly around the elbows and knees—a crimson red cloak and the sigil of a white-crowned gold stag on the breastplate. Atop the mannequin's head was a refined great antlered helmet, recently polished.

"Maybe it's a little of both," remarked the Young Stag. "Do you think me heartless? Cold, vicious, or cruel even?"

"No, but even I can tell that deep down you're still conflicted about this."

"You think I don't know that already?"

Tyrion set his goblet of wine down and approached Daveth, opting to sit beside him.

"I know how hard it's been on you these last few years," he said reassuringly. "Fair or unfair, you've had to carry a heavy burden on your shoulders alone and do what needed to be done for the sake of the Seven Kingdoms. To bring about change, enact a tough but fair justice system… blood ties or no, that's the kind of self-sacrifice that makes for a good ruler if it's any consolation."

Daveth shook his head. "Indeed, you really are terrible at consoling. Never thought ruling could taste so bitter."

"All right, how about the fact that this is actually happening?" Tyrion asked. "Playing the great game is a terrifying one, a very risky gamble with the fate of the realm hanging in the balance. You either win or you lose. The only people who aren't afraid of failure are madmen like the Mad King. Are you afraid?"

Daveth looked at his uncle, seemingly incensed at the question but somehow felt a sense of truth behind them. Begrudgingly, he nodded. "Do you know what bothers me most? I know what my own mother has been doing behind my back, what she's done. I'm not blind as to what she is, but Cersei Lannister… I know she's guilty, but she's still my mother. What good is the concept of family if the ones you look to for protection and comfort end up hurting you the most?"

Tyrion looks at his nephew. "And yet here I am."

"And yet here you are. Why choose to continue following me in spite of everything that's happened?"

"Daveth, let me tell you something that I had to figure out for myself. I've been a cynic for as long as I can remember. Everyone's always asking me to believe in things: family, gods, Kings, myself. It was often tempting until I saw where belief got people. So I said no thank you to belief."

Daveth furrowed his brow. "I'm… not sure I follow you."

Tyrion took a moment to explain. "When you faced off against Loras Tyrell and his massive force at the Blackwater Rush, you were both heavily outnumbered and had no good reason to believe you would've fended off a siege. In fact, it was a likely suicidal mission. But your men didn't seem to care even in the slightest, they followed you anyway. Your victory over the Iron Islands? All these noble houses: Lannister, Stark, Baratheon, Tully, Tyrell, Arryn… they all stood beside you ready to storm the darkest depths of the Seven hells and back."

The Young Stag said nothing as he further listened to Tyrion's counsel.

"Why? Because they believed in  _you_ , their King, just as  _I_  believe in  _you_ ," he continued. "The people who follow you have seen that not only could you manage to acquire results  _and_  keep a promise, but you did so very quickly at your age. Maybe that alone gives them hope that you can make other impossible things happen. Build a world that's different from the one we've always known."

Daveth didn't know what to say. As confident as he was, even he had his moment of doubts sometimes. His eyes glanced to the floor as the door to his room opened. Daveth and Tyrion looked up to see Bronn entering.

"Ser Bronn," the Young Stag acknowledged. "What brings you here? I thought you were still recovering from your… incident at Flea Bottom."

"Your uncle invited me here," Bronn explained, ignoring the wince in his muscles.

Daveth looked at Bronn more closely, noticing the recent change in attire. Less of a common sellsword, more… nobly. "You have new clothes," he recognized.

The lowborn sellsword looked pleased. "Do you like 'em? Eh? Gloves are doeskin. Softer than a virgin's thighs. Courtesy of your dwarfish uncle."

Now Daveth was curious. "Tyrion," he raised an eyebrow, "what were you doing?"

Tyrion smirked. "I figured you could use something to cheer you up," he said. "So I had Bronn arrange increase a level of security in preparations for the trial. And in exchange—"

"I have a wedding to prepare for," he interrupted. "Once this whole mess blows over, I'm to wed that lass of yours Reina Fishport. My lonesome bachelor days are over."

_'What the…?'_  Daveth thought speechless. "When did this happen?" he asked.

"Just last night."

"You do realize that she works for me, right?"

"If I wanted secrets, I'd marry the eunuch," Bronn countered. "Besides, I've heard from your uncle that she's not only beautiful, but has a pretty big castle and is quite rich too."

"Ahh… of course he'd say that," the Young Stag shook his head. "But why not come to me about it first?"

"You already have a lot on your mind, nephew," Tyrion pointed out. "A Lannister always pays his debts."

Daveth shot back quickly, "My mother's a Lannister."

Tyrion replied, almost as quickly, "And you are half-Lannister. That makes you one of us."

Daveth pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine, fine. I'll speak with Reina and smooth things over when this is done. But did you find anything else? Who mother plans on championing her?"

Tyrion and Bronn looked at each other, both of them looking equally nervous.

"Well?" he asked.

"Your mother's brought her seven champions already, one of 'em is the bloody Mountain," Bronn informed him.

_'That only confirms my suspicions, but… perhaps this could work in our favor,'_  the King theorized, brushing his fingers across his chin. "Does the Mountain frighten you so much, Ser Bronn? After how he butchered your gold cloaks and almost killed you?"

Bronn shuddered. "I'd be a bloody fool if he didn't frighten me," he said. "He's freakish big and freakish strong  _and_  quicker than you'd expect for a man of that size."

"So you will not fight?" he pressed.

Bronn shook his head. "Don't get me wrong, Your Grace, I like your uncle and you both paid me a great deal of coin. I just like myself more."

"Disappointing, but… perhaps you won't have to."

Tyrion and Bronn looked at Daveth, curious as to what he meant. And with a snap of his fingers, both men looked to see Prince Oberyn Martell creeping up behind them.

"I imagine you'd be back at the brothel at this hour," Tyrion pointed out.

Oberyn shook his head. "I did spend some time with an absolutely stunning blonde the other day."

"He meant mother," explained Daveth.

"It was difficult for her to hide her disdain."

"Her impatience, short-sighted nature and inability to realize her own limitations are one of her greatest weaknesses. She's not as clever as she thinks she is."

Oberyn's next words surprised both Tyrion and Bronn. "I came here because of the offer your nephew promised. Not just to me, but to all of Dorne. You know, we met you and I. Many years ago."

Daveth looked at Tyrion. "You never told me that."

Tyrion looked confused. "If it did, then I would have remembered that."

"Unlikely. You had just been born," Oberyn shook his head. "Our father brought me and my sister Elia with him on a visit to Casterly Rock. My first time away from Dorne. I didn't like anything about the Rock. Not the food, not the weather, not your accents. Nothing. But the biggest disappointment…? You."

The familiar stab of embarrassment Tyrion Lannister had felt for years panged him, though he knew that he did not hide the pain as well as he did.

"You and my family have more in common than you might admit," he said.

Oberyn studied the Imp for a moment as Daveth traded glances between the two. "The whole way from Dorne all anyone talked about was the monster that had been born to Tywin Lannister. A head twice the size of his body, a tail between his legs, claws, one red eye, the privates of both a girl and a boy."

_'Uncle…'_  Daveth thought, unable to comprehend what Tyrion must be feeling the more he heard; how the Imp's reaction would predictably entail.

"When we met your sister, she promised she would show you to us. Every day we would ask. Every day she would say, 'Soon.' Then she and your brother took us to your nursery and… she unveiled the freak," Oberyn paused to inspect the reactions he was receiving from Tyrion and Daveth, but didn't need to see their faces to know there were secrets hidden among them. "Your head was a bit large. Your arms and legs were a bit small, but no claw. No red eye. No tail between your legs. Just a tiny pink cock. We didn't try to hide our disappointment. 'That's not a monster,' I told Cersei, 'that's just a baby.' And she said, 'He killed my mother.' And she pinched your little cock so hard, I thought she might pull it off. Until your brother made her stop. 'It doesn't matter,' she told us. 'Everyone says he will die soon, I hope they are right; he should not have lived this long.'"

Daveth cringed at the mental image. He understood what his mother was and was shown to be everything he believed her to be, but hadn't even imagined that she would torture his own uncle that way at the time of his birth. Tears welled up in Tyrion's eyes; for all his earlier counseling, he seemed to be in need of consoling at the recollection of physical and mental abuse he endured for years.

"I… don't know what to say," the Young Stag spoke after a few moments.

"Your mother, Cersei… she always gets what she wants," Tyrion's voice cracked.

Daveth narrowed his eyes. "As do I."

"And what about what  _I_  want?" Oberyn narrowed his eyes. "Justice for my sister and her children. I want the justice you yourself had promised me. I want to bring those who have wronged me to justice."

"And I intend on keeping my word, Prince Oberyn," he said.

Oberyn stood from his seat and straightened his shoulders, making his stature seem much larger. "So now is the perfect time for doing so. I will begin with Ser Gregor Clegane, who killed my sister's children and then raped her with their blood still on his hands before killing her, too. I will be one of your champions."

Daveth looked at his Dornish Master of Laws, saying nothing but nodding his head in understanding. "Very well," he said. "But if you intend on fighting the Mountain, then you'll need all the help you can get. Like Maegor the Cruel did during the Faith Militant uprising 259 years ago, I will take part in the trial."

Tyrion's eyes widened in surprise. "You what? Your Grace, forgive me for saying it but when did you make this decision? If you win, that's fine and all. But if you lose? What will Tommen or Myrcella think? And what will Sansa think? Gods preserve me, she's the mother of your unborn child."

Daveth stood from his seat and examined his armor. "Psychological warfare, uncle. What better way than to use the enemy's own tactics against them? Besides, I have firsthand experience when it comes to dealing with Ser Gregor Clegane. And with certain assurances, the pendulum might swing our way."

"And if it doesn't?"

"Then simply pray. Either way, I intend to see this through to the end."

Oberyn nodded and left the room to get ready. Slowly the pieces of the puzzle were falling into place, yet still remained a very risky political gamble. Ser Barristan Selmy, Ser Lucius Blackmyre, Brienne of Tarth, Ariyana Dayne, Prince Oberyn Martell, himself… all that remained was the one final key player; depending on his cooperation.

* * *

**In the black cells…**

* * *

 

_"You took too long,"_  Cersei's voice rang through Jaime's head. The Kingslayer ran his hands through his blonde hair as he was in the midst of a private argument with his disgraced twin sister.

"Tell me that you didn't do what I think you did," he sounded as if he was begging.

Cersei frowned deeply. "Since when did you care what you think I did?"

"I've never been with any other woman but you, Cersei. You know that. Why Lancel?"

"You took too long," the Golden Lioness repeated the words she used years ago.

Jaime glances over as Cersei walks right past him to bring in her and Petyr Baelish's assembled champions. Ser Lyn Corbray, Ser Morgarth, Ser Lothor Brune, Lester, Ser Lyonel Frey, Ser Addam Marbrand and the Mountain himself Ser Gregor Clegane.

"If you've come here seeking my favor, you're a bit late for that," she said coldly. "You were better, before you lost your wits at Highgarden. Ser Barristan, when he was young. Arthur Dayne was better, and Prince Rhaegar was a match for even him. Do not pirate at me about what you think you are entitled to."

She was tired of Jaime balking her. No one had ever balked her lord father. When Tywin Lannister spoke, men obeyed. When Cersei spoke, they felt free to counsel her, to contradict her, even refuse her. She would not suffer it, especially not from Jaime.

"A Lannister always pays her debts, brother," Cersei continued. "I will say and do whatever I need to insure the integrity of our house. And to dispel the court of the slanderous lies that polluted the mind of my 'son'."

Jaime couldn't believe his ears; no matter how hard he pressed for answers, or his attempts at pleading, he would get no further answers from Cersei. She noticed his bewildered face and approached him.

"Once I win the trial by seven and the charges are cleared, we'll all start off a clean slate again."

"Things will never be a clean slate again no matter the end scenario, Cersei," Jaime pointed out. "Look, I spoke with Daveth earlier. I reminded him that you are his mother just as much as he is your son. This has gotten way out of hand, and I advise that further acts of display shouldn't—"

Cersei frowned. "Oh, my son now heeds your counsel does he?" she accused daringly.

Cersei's intransigence frustrates Jaime. He's fought alongside Daveth on the battlefield and understands that whenever both his sister or nephew spot an objective, neither of them were willing to back down.

"You should have listened more when father spoke about the importance of gold and how gold win wars," she continued ranting. "Oh, I know it was boring for you. You just wanted to hunt and ride and fight. But  _I_  listened.  _I_ learned. And with the best of the best on my side, this whole farce will be easily swept aside."

Her champions mostly pretended to ignore Cersei's lecturers, except for Ser Addam Marbrand—who had recently begun questioning the mindset of his liege lord's only daughter. Ser Gregor Clegane, meanwhile, snorted loudly as he kept his arms folded.

"Cersei—" Jaime tried to speak up again.

She abruptly cut him off. "No one walks away from me. But if it's my favor you want again, then stand aside and pledge yourself to me. You could have anything you want."

"Cersei, I'm a Kingsguard," he pointed out. "No matter how much I really want to tear off the white cloak, a Kingsguard serves for life."

"Then it's an act of treason."

Jaime couldn't believe what he just heard. "Treason?! Cersei, have you lost your mind?!" he exclaimed bewildered.

Cersei's frowned further deepened. The words stung.  _'You whispered kinder words to me at Greenstone, the night you planted Joff inside me,'_  she thought. "Disobeying your Queen's command. What would you call it?"

Jaime considers his response for a long beat, staring at his sister, his lover,  _his_  Queen. It soon became clear that he couldn't change her mind as well.

"It doesn't matter what I'd call it," he shook his head.

He turns to leave the black cells but finds that Ser Gregor Clegane moved directly in his way.

"Where do you think you're going, little man?" the Mountain's voice thundered.

Jaime looked up at the Mountain before noticing Cersei sneering at him. Ser Addam looked surprised.

"Your Grace—!" he called out.

"I told you no one walks away from me," she said again.

Jaime looked at his twin sister in disbelief. "Are you really going to order him to kill me? Is that how far you're really planning to go?"

"Ser Gregor."

The Mountain pulled out his greatsword, surprising all in attendance. Before the guards could call for reinforcements, Jaime kept his gaze focused on Cersei.

"Give the order then," he said simply.

He watches her and waits. The Mountain waits for a command from Cersei. She nods, the smallest possible nod. The Mountain draws his sword. Jaime stood there shocked, knowing there's no point fighting. Despite his superb talent with the sword, he knows he will be cut in half if he were to fight the Mountain by himself. He stares at his sister for a long beat.

_"Mother has done things I never thought possible. She will be the end of you if you don't break free of her,"_  Daveth's voice rang through Jaime's head. His faith in Cersei shattered, Jaime shook his head.

"I don't believe you," he spat in disgust before turning to Ser Gregor. "Get out of my damn way."

The Kingslayer forcibly shoved his way out of the black cells as more guards arrived to restore order. Jaime storms past the Mountain, who still made no move to stop him. Stunned at his decision, Cersei's eyes hinted a brief sense of sanity as she stared after her twin shocked, speechless, saddened and apparently angry at his abandonment of her. Jaime, meanwhile, kept walking forward and didn't look back. He did, however, notice Brienne apparently waiting for him.

"How long were you standing there?" he asked.

Brienne noticed the change in tone of Jaime's voice. "Long enough," she answered. "So what will be your decision, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime shut his eyes and shook his head.  _'Family against family. Who would've thought the prospect tasted so bitter,'_  he thought. "Go tell him then. Tell my nephew that I'll be one of his seven champions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it guys; the seven champions representing the Iron Throne have been revealed. A bit of backstory between a few characters (i.e. Ariyana Dayne and Barristan Selmy), a bonding moment between Daveth Baratheon and Tyrion Lannister, the Young Stag announces his intention to enter the fray with his champions (no surprise Oberyn Martell enters himself in) as well as Jaime Lannister signifying his resignation from Cersei's entourage and his decision siding with his nephew. How do you guys think the trial by seven will turn out when shit hits the fan? Thoughts? Let me know.


	72. Trial by Seven

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

After a series of tense, strenuous trials and shocking tribulations, the day of reckoning had finally arrived. The trial by seven of Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish was now officially underway; located further away from the Red Keep, the stage was set on the Dragonpit atop Rhaenys's Hill—a giant domed structure designed to serve as a stable for the source and symbol of power for Targaryen kings: their dragons. Unfortunately, the site was later destroyed by a smallfolk uprising during the Targaryen civil war known as the Dance of Dragons; following the Dance of Dragons, the huge structure was never rebuilt and left in ruins ever since.

The entire arena had been set up, the gold crowned stag on a black field flew from many different angles, the sigil of Daveth's faction of House Baratheon, two pavilions set up—both with the Lannister banner on the left and the Baelish banner alongside it.

The Dragonpit arena was a few miles away from King's Landing, yet looked earie as several onlookers began taking their assigned seats. Lord Hand Tywin Lannister sat next to Queen Sansa Stark on his left, with Tyrion Lannister sitting to his right; the Wolf Queen was in her seven-month pregnancy yet her face was full of concern and worry. Shae, Sansa's Lorathi handmaiden, massaged her mistress's shoulder as if to reassure her that things will be all right again soon. The Old Lion's face still retained a cold, frowning scowl at the unnerving revelation of his only daughter's accusations and was more furious at the cold-hard evidence that was presented to him almost a month ago. He hadn't spoken to Cersei during her court trial, and had since quietly disinherited her. Tywin examined the Dragonpit closely—noticing squads of gold cloaks stationed at strategic locations around the exits with crossbowmen stationed atop the pillars on all sides, each one locked-and-loaded and ready to fire if necessary.

_'I see what you've been planning, boy. Block all possible escape routes and have crossbows on standby should a certain party try anything,'_  Tywin noted.

Sansa observed the claimants and defendants and their seven respective champions. To her shock, she spotted Daveth standing alongside his champions: Barristan Selmy, Ariyana Dayne, Brienne of Tarth, Jaime Lannister, Lucius Blackmyre and Oberyn Martell. All of them were getting ready for the battle.

"Daveth?! What's he doing?" she gasped.

Shae hushed her mistress. "Calm down, Your Grace. We don't know why—"

"It's psychological warfare," Olyvar announced, sitting behind Sansa.

The Wolf Queen looked over her shoulder to look at him. "I… I'm sorry, do I…?"

"Oh, pardon my manners, Your Grace," he apologized. "I'm Olyvar Frey, eighteenth son of Lord Walder Frey and squire to His Grace King Daveth himself."

Sansa furrowed her brow slightly; Tyrion, meanwhile, was rather somewhat amused.

_'Ah yes, that would explain the weasel-like face,'_ he thought.

"Why aren't you down there with your King?" Sansa asked.

Olyvar frowned, his facial expressions displayed disappointment. "I offered to be one of his seven champions, Your Grace, but he wouldn't allow it. Says it was a problem he had to deal with himself… that, and I'm still just a squire."

"Perhaps it's for the best," Tyrion said, "considering  _who_  my sister picked."

"Fate tends to work in mysterious way," a woman spoke.

Sansa turned to see a woman donned in crimson red attire with a large glowing ruby necklace sitting down beside Shae, looking like she belonged here. Most of the Red Keep staff had never seen this beautiful woman before, though whisperers only discovered her name as Vaeraleah; but have yet to determine her motives for being here.

"Who…?" Sansa tried to ask.

"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," Vaeraleah said simply.

Sansa raised an eyebrow and tilted her head slightly, possibly unsure as to what the woman said. Shae, however, perked her ears up at the High Valyrian language.

"Valar dohaeris (all men must serve)," Shae replied. "Sorry, but you'll have to stick with the Common Tongue. My mistress doesn't speak High Valyrian."

Sansa shook her head, not caring the slightest. "Who are you and why are you here?"

Vaeraleah merely smiled. "Who I am doesn't matter, child, but I simply came to pray for the King with the Lord's blessings."

"You're a priestess, then?"

She nodded. "Direct your eyes more closely to the arena, child, and you will see why."

On que, Sansa and Olyvar looked to see Cersei Lannister and Petyr Baelish arriving with their champions: Lyn Corbray, Morgarth, Lester, Lothor Brune, Lyonel Frey, Addam Marbrand… and Gregor Clegane. Their eyes widened in surprise.

"The Mountain?!" both of them exclaimed.

Cersei seemed half a child herself beside Ser Gregor, who stood at an almost colossal 8'0". In his armor, the Mountain looked bigger than any man had any right to be. Cladded in heavy plate armor over chainmail, dull grey steel dinted and scarred in battle with boiled leather and a layer of quilting underneath and wielding a large six-foot-long broadsword with one arm.

Daveth stared at Ser Gregor whilst polishing his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer as his Kingsguard knights readied themselves for the imminent battle. Prince Oberyn Martell, meanwhile, was having his squire Ser Daemon Sand coating the Red Viper's spear. The Young Stag broke eye contact and examined Oberyn's leather armor. The Red Viper wore simple thick leather lamellar armor and a satin sash bearing the sigil of House Martell—a golden spear piercing a red sun on an orange field.

"You prefer wearing light armor?" he asked.

Prince Oberyn laughed. "I like to move around," he said coquettishly as if it were nothing. "Can't have anything slowing me down or hinder my movements. Unpredictability and speed is my element."

Daveth cringed at Oberyn's tone yet said nothing. He hadn't seen Oberyn fight before, but was about to soon enough. As much as notoriously fearsome, dangerously lethal and a much-feared warrior as he was, even the simplest knight knew that even the slightest misstep against Gregor Clegane would certainly be the single-most mistake that would definitely cost them their lives.

Lucius Blackmyre gripped his spiked club and flicked his wrist, testing his weapon's weight and density. Brienne unsheathed her longsword, mentally preparing herself. Ariyana Dayne spun Dawn in a circular motion with one hand while keeping her other hand gripping the pommel of her other longsword. Barristan Selmy—with Bastion in hand—eyed the Mountain before redirecting his attention to Ser Lyn Corbray, the same man who killed a badly wounded Prince Lewyn Martell during the Battle of the Trident twenty years ago. Jaime Lannister, meanwhile, still felt his heart sink at being forced into this situation by both his twin sister and nephew.

"Just remember that too much confidence can be your own hubris," mentioned Lucius; the Old Bull knowing all too-well of the dangers of hot-headedness and overwhelming passion. "And remember the plan we've gone over."

Oberyn shrugged his shoulders as if not caring. "You learn this during your years in the fighting pits? No? I thought not."

Before Lucius could scold the Red Viper, Ariyana chimed in.

"As much as I hate to say it, Prince Oberyn," she said, "but Dorne will need you intact. We've already lost enough."

"Oh, not you as well," the Red Viper rolled his eyes.

"She's right, Oberyn," Daveth agreed. "That's why I'm here. Not just to uphold my end of the bargain and provide strategic insight on the Mountain, but to keep all of you alive and make sure you don't do anything reckless."

Oberyn shook his head, slightly annoyed at the notion. As Cersei's and Petyr's champions began marching towards the center of the arena, Prince Oberyn's paramour Ellaria Sand's face paled at the sight of Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane. Her eyes trained on him as he took center stage.

"You're going to fight  _that_?" she said in a hushed voice.

"I'm going to  _kill_  that," Oberyn replied with such fire in his voice.

"He's the biggest man I've ever seen!"

"Size does not matter when you are flat on your back."

_'I hope to Seven hells that you know what you're doing,'_  thought Daveth flatly.

Brienne rolled her eyes. "Focus, Prince Oberyn."

***PAH-PA-RAH!***

A dozen trumpeters blew a fanfare to the quiet crowd. Upon hearing this, Ser Barristan turned his head towards the other Kingsguard. "All right, everyone. It's time," he ordered.

As the champions representing the Crown and the accused walked towards the center of the arena, the High Septon prayed that the Father would help them in this judgment and that the Warrior would lend his strength to the arm of the men whose cause was just. Tywin, Tyrion, Sansa and Olyvar watched from their sears above as Grand Maester Pycelle steadily shuffled his way towards the center of the arena. The old maester gazed up at the center pavilion where Tywin and Sansa sat and began the opening speech.

"In the sight of Gods and men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of… this man Petyr Baelish and Her Grace the Queen Mother Cersei Lannister," Pycelle stuttered. "May the Mother grant them mercy. May the Father give them such justice as they deserve. And may the Warrior guide the hand of our champions. May the Smith grant them the strength to fight. May the Maiden grant the truth. May the Crone guide the hearts of the accused and accuser. And may the Stranger accompany those who fall on his way."

Vaeraleah closed her eyes and began reciting a prayer. "Āeksio, jehikagon aōha ōños bē bisa ābrītsos vala, se urnēptre zirȳla se path istis geron. (Lord, cast your light upon this young man, and show him the path he must walk)," she prayed. "Āeksiot Ōño, urnēptre īlva se drēje. Urnēptre Daveth Barāthēon se jemagon zirȳla hen se path hen sȳndror. Pryjagon ilagon lī qilōni nūmāzma naejot ōdrikagon zirȳla. Āeksiot Ōño, tepagon īlva sylvia. Syt Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys. (Show us the truth. Lord of Light, guide Daveth Baratheon and lead him from the path of darkness. Strike down those who seek to harm him. Lord of Light, give us wisdom. For the night is dark and full of terrors.)"

***PAH-PA-RAH!***

It was the trumpet that would initiate the fight. The crowd cheered, except for Sansa. The Wolf Queen gulped and felt her hands begin to steadily shake. Shae once again had to settle her down. Daveth and his champions stepped forward; the Young Stag looked behind him to see Oberyn and Ellaria engage in a passionate kiss. The latter moved away from her to approach the arena, before she pulled him back by the hand.

"Don't leave me alone in this world," Ellaria begged quietly.

Oberyn smiled. "Never," he said softly as he picked up his spear.

Both sides eventually met in the center of the Dragonpit arena. Oberyn took a moment to spin the spear around to get familiar with the weight of it in his hands. Daveth watched as the Red Viper dance around the floor and impress the spectators with his acrobatics, spinning and jumping in a way he had never seen before. Oberyn ceased his acrobats and smiled at the crowd who cheered in excitement.

"Oberyn, stop showing off!" Ariyana called out.

Lyn Corbray shook his head in amusement. "Your Grace," he greeted.

Daveth looked at one of his mother's seven champions. "Ser Corbray," he returned.

"A shame we had to meet under these circumstances."

"Indeed."

"I fought the Mad King for your father at the Trident," Lyn mentioned.

"And before that you fought your liege lord Jon Arryn at the Mad King's behest at the gates of Gulltown," the Young Stag retorted. "Now you fight for mother  _and_  Littlefinger of all people. So it appears your loyalties are somewhat… flexible."

Lyn frowned deeply at the accusation. "I wish you good fortune in the wars to come," he gritted his teeth.

Daveth did not speak further, only to unsheathe Stormbringer—prompting the other Kingsguard knights to do the same. The opposing side did the same, each brandishing their blades ready for the fight. Cersei watched from the sidelines, smirking wickedly as the trial by seven was about to unfold. Petyr, meanwhile, kept his arms folded in his sleeves—but one glance in his eyes indicated he had something up his sleeve.

Oberyn finished turning from the crowd and towards his desired opponent, the Mountain, still smiling broadly.

"Have they told you who I am?" he asked amusedly.

"Some dead man," Ser Gregor roared inexorably and lunged forth with his broadsword.

This prompted Daveth and the Kingsguard to quickly jump into the fray, with their opponents unsheathing their blades to meet theirs. Sounds of steel clashing against steel echoed throughout the whole Dragonpit arena; gasps and exclamations rung from one spectator to another.

Wielding two swords at once, Ariyana parried blows from Ser Addam Marbrand and Lothor Brune—with Barristan Selmy aiding her. Brienne was locked in battle with Morgarth as Lucius Blackmyre battled Lyonel Frey while Jaime Lannister contended with Lester. Daveth, crossed swords with Lyn Corbray.

"You're pretty good, boy," Lyn grunted.

"The same couldn't be said of you," Daveth replied.

Getting under his skin, throw him off-balance… Daveth tacitly knew that Lyn was talented, but also vain, reckless and hot-tempered. If he got into the Valeman's head, he would control the battle. Lyn felt himself getting increasingly angry at the incredulous taunting from a combatant twenty years his junior.

Prince Oberyn, meanwhile, matched Ser Gregor Clegane blow for blow and easily dodged the Mountain's movements. Oberyn advanced quickly, the Mountain more ominously. The crowd cheered as he handled his spear with grace, speed and elegance. When their weapons separated, the Red Viper slid sideways and called out.

"I am the brother of Princess Elia Martell of Dorne," he said fiercely, his eyes remained locking onto the Mountain. "And do you why I have come all the way to this city? For  _you_."

"Who?" asked Gregor Clegane.

"I'm going to hear you confess before you die. You raped my sister. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say it now and we can make this quick."

Twirling his spear, Oberyn jabbed his weapon, but Ser Gregor took the point on his blade and bulled back at the Dornish prince. The Red Viper spun away untouched. The spear darted forward and the Mountain slashed at it. Oberyn snapped it back before thrusting it again—knocking off Gregor's helmet.

Ariyana fended off her two opponents with fluidity, leaping over Ser Addam's shoulder and kicking him to the ground before spinning around to catch Lothor's blade with the sword gripped in her left hand before plunging Dawn through his chest. The first of Cersei's champions fell, but the disgraced Queen Mother still felt confident that only one of her champions would prevail.

Despite his old age, Barristan was able to quickly dispatch Morgrath with relative ease and Brienne eliminated Lyonel Frey with Lucius's aid—the Tarth maiden knocked Lyonel's blade out of his hand just as Lucius swung his spiked club and bludgeoned it deep into the Frey's skull—the sickening sound of bones crack reached their ears as the impact of the blow nearly squashed Lyonel's head. Ariyanna brought her two swords clashing against Ser Addam Marbrand's; the middle-aged heir of Ashemark found himself struggling against a much younger adversary  _and_  a woman, no less! Ariyana spun her two blades so swiftly Ser Addam had trouble tracking her movements before finding enough room to slash at her; the Sword of the Morning ducked and spun around behind Addam, bringing Dawn to sever his right hamstring, forcing him to his knees.

Ariyana kicked Ser Addam's left leg and he fell onto his back. Before he could grab his sword, Ariyana stomped on his wrist and placed her knee on his chest, pointing the edge of Dawn to his throat.

"Stop! I yield!" Ser Addam conceded.

Cersei was beginning to shake her head—furious, outraged… three of her champions were slain, one surrendered. She turned to see her twin brother Jaime felling Lester. Even Petyr Baelish felt that luck was gradually turning against them; now having been reduced to two champions in a matter of minutes whilst Daveth and his champions remain standing, even the Lord Protector himself must have had to be feeling the intense pressure.

"Your Grace!" shouted Barristan.

Daveth, who remained locked in combat with Ser Lyn Corbray, shook him off. "I'll be fine, Lord Commander! Gather the others and help Oberyn!"

Queen Sansa still stood clutching her heart, trying to steady herself as the events unfolded before her eyes. Vaeraleah, on the other hand, still kept reciting a silent prayer.

" Āeksiot Ōño, dārōñe aōha kosh perzys bē aōha. Māzigon naejot zirȳla isse zȳhon jēda hen jorrāelagon. Syt Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys. (Lord of Light, bless your Chosen One. Come to him in his time of need. For the night is dark and full of terrors.)"

Back down at the arena, Gregor Clegane let out a loud growl and thundered towards him with heavy footsteps. Prince Oberyn moved to the side and evaded the charging thrust.

"Say it!" he exclaimed.

The Mountain charged again at Oberyn, emitting guttural sounds yet still failed to even touch him as the Red Viper paced the floor.

"You raped her!" Oberyn called, feinting. "You murdered her!" he said, dodging a looping cut from Ser Gregor's broadsword. "You killed her children!"

Sword and spear intertwined, Gregor Clegane swung his sword upwards to break the deadlock. Oberyn jumped sideways to avoid the hit, backing even further as the Mountain charged again swinging wildly. Oberyn narrowed his eyes, aimed and thrusted forward with his spear, hitting Gregor in the chest but narrowly missing the gap in the Mountain's armor he needed to deliver the blow. The Mountain retaliated by delivering a swift kick to Oberyn's chest, knocking the Red Viper off his feet and stumbling backwards on the ground.

Ellaria Sand watched on in shock. The Mountain moved again, raising his blade high before being harried from behind by Ariyana Dayne.

"Gnah!" Gregor snarled, turning around to swing.

Ariyana ducked and spun sideways. "Over here, you brute!" she called out.

Ser Gregor charged again, only to be blindsided by Brienne of Tarth and Lucius Blackmyre's charge, ramming him in his unprotected flank.

"May the Stranger take you," Brienne hollered.

Cersei scowled deeply, yet Petyr Baelish calculatingly determined the Young Stag's strategy.

"Interesting," he said in realization. "His Grace knows the Mountain is the greatest threat and that keeping his champions separate from one another would spell out certain trouble."

"What do you mean?" snapped Cersei impatiently.

"By taking out each of the other champions one-by-one, the Mountain would be surrounded on all sides by the best and skilled warriors. I'm afraid that even the Mountain couldn't take them all on by himself."

Cersei shook her head at Littlefinger's explanation. It mattered not in her eyes. Ser Gregor Clegane would prevail in the end, superior numbers or no. Oberyn managed to recover quickly and soon got back to his feet, opting not to pause and take advantage of the confusion and pressed the attack. Daveth and Lyn traded blows with one another, the Young Stag looking quite pleased as the group strategy was beginning to unfold.

_'As monstrously strong and large as he is, even someone like the Mountain is but a mad dog without a single strategic thought in his head,'_  he theorized.  _'But even so, distractions only work for a certain period of time. It looks like I'll have quickly to wrap things up here and help out lest more problems arise.'_

"Focus on the fight, boy!" Lyn hollered and charged again with his Valyrian steel blade Lady Forlorn.

Daveth brought Stormbringer up, parrying Lady Forlorn in the nick of time. Ser Lyn Corbray was apparently more skilled in combat than the Young Stag gave him credit for—though his movements indicated he was slightly making a misstep.

"Rrah!" Lyn brought Lady Forlorn down, only for King Daveth to sidestep and deliver a hard right hook to his face.

Lyn stumbled backwards from the punch. Swinging Stormbringer downwards, reining blow after blow and forcing the veteran Vale knight to his knees, Daveth shifted his position and swung sideways—knocking Lady Forlorn out of Lyn's hands before swiftly bringing back around.

***SHHHUNK!***

With one fell swing, Daveth drove Stormbringer into the side of Lyn Corbray's neck—nearly decapitating him. The Corbray knight released his grip on Lady Forlorn and his body slumped to the ground dead, blood shooting out of his neck. Once determine that his enemy was dead, Daveth turned to notice that it all came down to the next difficult task: overwhelming Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane with superior numbers. The Young Stag gripped Stormbringer and moved to join the fray, only to be forced backwards by the Mountain's swing.

"You took your sweet time coming, Your Grace," Lucius panted.

Daveth shook his head. "I got a little sidetracked, but I'm here now."

"Good," Ariyana complained, "now can we please just kill this guy? He keeps forcing us back!"

"We kept trying to outflank him, but the Mountain's just as fast for a man of his size," Brienne pointed out.

"Then we'll simply have to wait for an opening to present itself!" Barristan responded.

Jaime Lannister moved to harass Gregor Clegane, nicking the Mountain's chainmail leggings before being knocked backwards himself.

"When he charges for another run, his rear flank will be exposed," Jaime examined. "Two groups ought to keep his left and right side, another keep the Mountain's focus on them while the other attacks from behind."

The Mountain threw down his sword and spun in a tornado motion, forcing the Kingsguard and Daveth himself to move backwards out of his range.

"The Mountain won't give us that time!" Ariyana added.

Lucius snorted. "Then we'll have to improvise! Everyone, be ready to attack at the same time!"

Oberyn, meanwhile, chose to attack again – drawing Ser Gregor Clegane away from them and towards him.

"Oberyn, what are you doing?" Daveth shouted.

The Mountain threw down his sword again and split Oberyn's spear in two, the Red Viper fell to the floor once again. The Mountain again swung his sword beneath him, but Barristan and Ariyana's intervention caught the impact though they found themselves struggling to hoist the Mountain's broadsword upwards considering his monstrous strength.

Oberyn used this to scurry out of the way as his squire Ser Daemon Sand tossed him another spear, ready to engage in the fight once more. Fueled by raging levels of anger at being harassed on all sides, the Mountain roared and lashed out at all around him—using the force of the momentum of his swing to fling Barristan and Ariyana away.

"Oof!"

"Nnugh!"

Both Ariyana and Barristan landed on their backs with a loud thud. Before they could get back up, the Mountain was ready to bring his blade down on them.

"You annoying little pests!" Gregor yelled.

Before the blade could come crashing down on them, Daveth charged into view. Lowering his head and shifting his position, the Young Stag rammed his shoulder against the Mountain's flank as fast and hard as he possibly could. Fortunately for him, the impact caused the Mountain to stumble just slightly enough for his blade to miss Barristan's head and hit the concrete close to his left shoulder, narrowly missing him. Unfortunately for Daveth, however, the Mountain only stumbled about two or three feet before regaining his balance and backhanded him across the face.

Daveth's cheek and jaw nearly snapped by the force of the Mountain's strike, blood spat out of his mouth and he spun around until he hit the floor.

"Daveth!" Sansa shrieked.

The Young Stag felt his world spinning, his ears were ringing. Here he thought getting hit by Lord Captain Victarion Greyjoy was rough, but getting hit by Ser Gregor Clegane however… that was considered much worse. Painful! Although lucky enough to still keep his teeth, Daveth felt incredibly disoriented and surprisingly couldn't find the strength to get back up right away.

"Protect the King!" Jaime shouted.

Seeing the Young Stag in trouble, Barristan, Lucius and Jaime broke ranks and gathered around the fallen Daveth. In the crowd, Sansa bit her lower lip as she trembled with distress; her eyes watered up and pleaded for Daveth to get up.

Cersei, as upset as she is over her situation, surprisingly found herself aghast at her firstborn son in such a condition.

"It all comes full circle," Petyr murmured. "Take out the King, then morale among the Kingsguard will break. And the Mountain will seize his chance."

The Golden Lioness kept silent.  _'You damned, foolish boy… You only have yourself to blame to dragging us into this mess.'_

Ariyana and Brienne moved to outflank the Mountain, but surprisingly Gregor Clegane kicked Brienne away and grabbed both of Ariyana's blades before lifting her up, swinging the Sword of the Morning around and throwing her against Brienne.

"Oof!" both women grunted as they collided with one another.

Ser Gregor huffed and puffed as he made his way towards the Kingsguard knights protecting Daveth. It was made apparent that after four years, the Mountain still held a deep grudge against the Young Stag. Barristan, Lucius and Jaime stood firm with their swords pointed and ready. All around the Dragonpit arena, the throng of spectators was creeping in towards the combatants, edging forward inch by inch to get a better view. The assembled City Watchmen tried to keep them back, shoving at the gawkers forcefully with their spears but there were hundreds of gawkers and only several dozens of the men in gold cloaks.

"Someone, please help him!" Sansa cried.

"Get up, Your Grace!" Olyvar stood. "Come on! Get up!"

Daveth was still on his knees, with one hand planted on his head and the other firmly on the ground to keep himself steady. Before the Mountain could reach them, Oberyn charged again and whacked Ser Gregor in the back with the hilt of his spear to divert his attention. With his gaze returned to the Red Viper, the Mountain was getting angrier, the rage etched on his brutish features and used his own weight to throw Oberyn around. As he raised his broadsword to finish him off, Oberyn saw an opening in Ser Gregor's armor and thrusted his spear upwards, stabbing him in the chest.

"Geugh!" the Mountain groaned.

As he stumbled, Oberyn quickly got to his feet and whacked the Mountain in the back with his spear again. Barristan, Jaime, Lucius, Ariyana and Brienne watched on as the Red Viper encircled his long-hated adversary.

"You raped her! You murdered her!" Prince Oberyn screamed louder; he shook his head, his face red and intense with anger and ferocity.

"SHUT UP!" Feeling himself suddenly disoriented, the Mountain stumbled and clumsily charged forward to bull rush, but Oberyn easily parried and skipped aside, circling around his back before pressing his spear across Ser Gregor's hamstring and gave a forceful yank backwards.

***SLASH!***

"Gnnnaagh! Uggh!" Ser Gregor shouted, forced to his knees.

Oberyn Martell, still seeing red, gripped his spear tightly and lunged. "YOU KILLED HER CHILDREN!" he screamed, leaping effortlessly into the air before burying his spear deep into the Mountain's stomach with the whole weight of his body behind it.

Coughing up blood, Ser Gregor was forced onto his back and was pinned to the floor. Everyone, including Tywin and Cersei Lannister—even Petyr Baelish—watched on as the Mountain spurted blood into the air. Everyone looks down surprised. The Kingsguard looked on in amazement, but Barristan soon felt a tug on his white cloak. Glancing backwards, Barristan the Bold noticed Daveth struggling to his feet.

"Your Grace!" he exclaimed.

"It's… it's not over yet," Daveth spat blood, pointing towards Ser Gregor. "Look. The… the Mountain still… still lives."

"I think you're still dizzy from that hit, nephew," Jaime protested.

Barristan opened his mouth to protest as well, but Lucius sensed something wasn't right; wrapping the Young Stag's arm and flinging it around his neck, the Old Bull helped lift Daveth to his feet and used his own body as a support structure to steady him.

"It'll be all right, Barristan. I've got him," Lucius reassured his superior officer.

"Go," Daveth repeated. "Stop… stop Oberyn from making a… a stupid mistake."

A few feet away, a furious Oberyn slowly encircles the prone Gregor and pulled his spear out of the Mountain's gut with a sickening sound.

"Wait. Are you dying?" he shook his head. "No, no, no. You can't die yet. You haven't confessed."

"What are you doing, Oberyn?!" Brienne called out. "Finish him now!"

"Finish it, Oberyn! Before it's too late!" shouted Ariyana.

Oberyn appeared to ignore them. "Say her name," he continued. "Say her name. Elia Martell. You raped her. You killed her children. Elia Martell."

Ser Gregor struggled to breathe; the people at the pavilion were solemn and silent. Sansa still worried for her husband, and the Lannisters were silent. Cersei's eyes shone a furiously dazzled look at the seemingly impossible fear pulled off before her presence.

"Who gave you the order? WHO GAVE YOU THE ORDER?!" Oberyn said hysterically, his voice boomed, his jaw quivered and shook as he pointed directly at the Hand of the King Lord Tywin Lannister. The spectators were silent and murmured at the gesture.

"Stop it, Oberyn!" Ariyana called out again, making several steps towards him. "Just kill him, already! He's still breathing! Kill him! Finish it!"

Barristan, Brienne and Jaime also approached with the intent on reining in the Red Viper's hot-headed passion.

"That's enough, Prince Oberyn!" Brienne called out.

"Say her name!" Oberyn continued. "You raped her! You murdered her! You killed her children. Say it. Say her name. Say it!"

Ser Clegane's hand shot up and quickly tripped up the Red Viper behind the knee, throwing him off-balance. Gregor's hand tightened and twisted, seizing Oberyn down on top of him with his hand wrapped tightly around his throat. The spectators gasped in shock at the turn of events.

"Damn it!" Ariyann immediately rushed to intervene.

The Mountain, now fully conscious and berserk with fury, was able to get off one punch against Oberyn's face—making splinters out the Red Viper's teeth and breaking his jaw in the process before the other Kingsguard knights Barristan Selmy, Brienne of Tarth and Jaime Lannister arrived and all equally kicked Ser Gregor in the face with enough force to knock him off of Oberyn. Ariyana pulled the disoriented Red Viper away for him to recover as Barristan and Jaime looked on in astonishment as Ser Gregor Clegane steadily rose to his feet.

"Elia Martell!" the Mountain roared for all to hear, his deep voice boomed. Gripping his fallen broadsword, he waved his blade around. "I killed her children! Then I raped her!"

Standing toe-to-toe with Ser Gregor Clegane in melee combat, Barristan, Brienne and Jaime met the charging thrust with swords against swords. Despite his monstrous size and injuries inflicted upon him, the Mountain was still a formidable foe capable of forcing the Kingsguard knights onto the defensive. With each downward swing, Jaime, Brienne and Barristan were each forced to their knees as they were forced to hold their swords up into a defensive parry.

"Then I smashed her fucking head in! Here, I'll show you!" he growled.

Swinging hard, Ser Gregor swept the Kingsguard in front of him aside—disarming them in the progress. Daveth was witnessing it and struggled against Lucius's grasp.

"No, Your Grace!" the Old Bull scolded. "You still haven't recovered yet!"

Daveth groaned. "If they die here, then all will be lost."

Straining with a pounding headache, Daveth shook Lucius and wobbly staggered forward with Lucius in tow and Stormbringer in hand.

"Stop it! Please, Daveth, stop!" Sansa screamed in terror.

"Stop it, Daveth!" Tyrion Lannister shouted in agreement.

"I'm begging you, please, stop it! Someone stop him! Daveth, stop! Please!"

"Don't do it, Your Grace! Stop!"

Ignoring the Wolf Queen and pleas and protests of the spectators, Vaeraleah enchanted one last silent prayer.

"Īlon epagon se āeksio naejot jehikagon zȳhon ōños, se tepagon iā gis se kustikāne naejot pyghagon arlī se elēnar hen sȳndror. (We ask the Lord to shine his light, and give a soul the strength to beat back the tide of darkness.)," she prayed. "Zȳhys perzys stepagon Āeksio Ōño jorepi, se gaomagon iā qēlītsos. Lēda mazverdagon, māzigon ābrar. Lēda ābrar, māzigon kirimves. Lēda kirimves, māzigon nāmorghūlilaros lyks. Āeksiot Ōño, urnēptre zirȳla se ñuhoso. Syt Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys (We beg the Lord to share his fire, and keep a candle lit. With creation, comes life. With life, comes joy. With joy, comes eternal peace. Lord of Light, show him the way. For the night is dark and full of terrors.)"

"STOP IT!" Sansa screamed loudly.

Lifting his broadsword up over Barristan, Jaime and Brienne, Ser Gregor felt more woozy and groggily brought his blade down – but met with extreme resistance from Ariyana Dayne and Daveth Baratheon as their brought their respective swords Dawn and Stormbringer to hold the Mountain's attack at bay. The Young Stag strained as he fought to retain consciousness with Ariyana used both her blades to keep the Mountain from bringing his weapon down.

Seeing an opening, the wounded Oberyn Martell staggered to his feet and gripped his spear before lunging forward. With one thrust, the Red Viper thrusted his spear through the Mountain's mouth and shoved deeply—with three feet of his spear penetrating through the back of Ser Gregor's skull.

"Thank you," Oberyn replied in a daze.

Feeling the broadsword become gradually lighter, Ariyana and Daveth shoved the Mountain backwards as the gigantic behemoth slumped to the ground on his back with a loud thud. After a tense moment of pause, the stunned crowd erupted loudly. Sansa wiped her eyes, cleaning off her tear-stained cheeks in relief as it was finally over. Olyvar breathed a sigh of relief as did Tyrion. Vaeraleah nodded in approval, pleased with the outcome.

Ariyana approached Oberyn and offered her hand, with the Red Viper grasping her arm as the Sword of the Morning pulled him up in triumph. The Red Viper looked down at the face of the man who had been haunting him, House Martell and all of Dorne for nearly twenty years. His jaw still misaligned and bleeding from the mouth, Oberyn looked at Daveth and gave a short nod. Ellaria Sand ran towards her love, who was crying tears of happiness.

Having used up most of his strength, a disoriented Daveth fell to his knees in utter exhaustion—prompting Barristan Selmy and Lucius Blackmyre to help the Young Stag to his feet. Wrapping both his arms around their shoulders, the two Kingsguard congratulated the visibly exhausted, bruised and battered King on delivering the justice he had promised. Queen Sansa Stark, having marched down from the pavilions and despite her pregnancy, rushed to embrace her husband and ordered Brienne to help escort him back to the Red Keep to recover.

Petyr's eyes widened in shock and sunk to his knees in fear for his life; Cersei, meanwhile, found herself unable to get any words out as she stared in catatonic astonishment at Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane's corpse. How? Why? How could things go horribly wrong?

Back on the pavilions, Lord Tywin shook his head and stood from his seat. "The gods have made their will known," the Old Lion spoke, a hint of shame and disappointment in his voice. "Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish… in the name of King Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, you are hereby sentenced to death."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that one took about two or three days to complete. But here it is. Oberyn Martell lives and Cersei and Littlefinger are both so screwed. Though Daveth and Oberyn received a brutal beating from the Mountain himself, how do you think their interactions with one another will affect Dornish-Baratheon relations? And what of the red priestess Vaeraleah? What do you think her prayers meant in this chapter? In your own opinion, did they have any significant meaning or no? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> Also before I sign off, the next two or three chapters will be considered cameo interludes focusing on Stannis Baratheon, Jon Snow and the inevitable Battle of Castle Black. So stay tuned for more updates! You have my word. And remember… Ours is the Fury!


	73. Interlude: Lord Stannis Baratheon

**At Dragonstone…**

* * *

Shireen Baratheon was in a happy mood. When she delivered the letter to Ser Davos Seaworth, informing the Onion Knight of her cousin's decision to pardon him, the bars to his cells were flung open and she immediately embraced the old man. Davos had never seen the teenage Baratheon girl so happy, but he felt a wave of relief wash over him as he hugged her back. Now that Davos was released and his past deeds erased, Shireen helped teach the Onion Knight to read as she promised.

In her chambers, Davos read scroll after scroll—though judging by the expression on his face, he still had a hard time making out the words. Shireen watched in amusement as she flipped another page of her book, trying not to laugh.

 

"'To his lordship Stannis Baratheon of Draygon— Dragonstone!… euh, in-in… invaded—'," he stammered, "'inv— invit— invited! to the name day celebration for… Rylene Florent on the first nigit—'"

"Night," Shireen corrected him.

Davos shook his head. "'First  _night_  of the full moon,'" he looked at Shireen. "Why is there a 'G' in night?" he asked.

Shireen shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. There just is."

"Well, your father's not going to go to that."

"I'm glad you're here."

Davos smiled. "Me too, child. Kinda surprised you asked the King himself."

"Daveth's my cousin," she pointed out. "All I had to do was to just ask for a favor to get you out of the cells and I got it. I knew from the beginning you were no traitor."

"You've a much tender heart; more so than your father, believe me."

Shireen stood and walked over to her table and returned, bringing over the book she was reading moments earlier. "Here! This book my cousin gave me is so much better than these boring scrolls. It's called  _An History of Aegon the Conqueror and His Conquest of Westeros_. You could read about Balerion the Dread. They say you can still see his skull in the dungeons beneath the Red Keep," she said in excitement. "I'd like to see that someday. Maybe I'll ask Daveth to show 'em to us the next time we go to King's Landing!"

"Ah, but your cousin the King's a busy man. Got a lot on his mind. The King does not have time for such drudgery," Davos reminded her. "That and I've been trying to stay out of those dungeons my whole life."

Shireen tried to hide her disappointment, even as she watched the Onion Knight reading a more recent scroll.

"'To all the lords and knobble men of Westeros'—"

" _Noblemen_ ," she corrected him again.

Davos shook his head. "' _Noblemen_  of Westeros, the Night's Watch…'" his eyes examined the letters before his tone of voice grew quieter yet very serious, "'implores…'"

Shireen lifted her head up, his ears perked up when she heard Davos' last statement.

"What is it?" she asked slightly concerned.

***BOOM-BOOM, DING-DONG!***

Davos and Shireen raised their heads up in unison at the sounds of bells ringing from King's Landing some several miles away. The Onion Knight felt his nerves twitch and a swirl of uncertain suspicions form in the pit of his stomach. Rising up from his seat, Ser Davos motioned Shireen to stay put while goes to investigate. Dragonstone had never seemed so dark and fearsome. He walked slowly, his footsteps echoing off black walls and dragons. The Stone Drum loomed huge ahead of him. The guards at the door uncrossed their spears as he approached. Upon opening the doors, Davos spots both Stannis leaning against the Chamber of the Painted Table with his back faced to him.

  

"My lord Stannis," Davos stepped forward.

If Stannis was surprised to find him at the Painted Table, he gave no sign. "If you're here about the bells, then that means the infamous trial by seven is over. The traitor Littlefinger and Cersei Lannister are set to be executed within the fortnight," he said. "And when Melisandre returns with Robert's bastard boy, we're to depart to White Harbor."

_'Who…?'_  Davos looked puzzled. "Why White Harbor?" he asked.

"Apparently my nephew the King has… 'requested' us to deliver supplies, weapons and conscripts to the Wall, at the behest of his councilors led by the Imp," Stannis rose from his seat and walked along the table, past Oldtown and the Arbor, up the Shield Islands and the mouth of the Mander. "Dangerous man believes there's bound to be trouble and somehow persuaded Daveth to go through with the plan."

"And the boy?"

Stannis ground his teeth. Before he could answer, on que Melisandre enters the room with Gendry in tow along with several of Stannis's guardsmen. They had just recently returned from the voyage to the Riverlands. Gendry, looking at the soldiers, lowered his head and shook his head slightly.

**ooOoo**

> _Several days ago…_
> 
> _Gendry stood with Bodrin and Anguy in the Riverlands, the youth often interacted with Anguy and less with Bodrin. He believed the old man to be deeply disappointed in his decision to join the Brotherhood Without Banners despite his warnings. Although the lad believed in his decision, Gendry couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt at the look of Bodrin's eyes. The old man looked out for him ever since the bloodbath at King's Landing and smuggled him out of there before he was next._
> 
> _"Hey, old man…" he tried to speak to him._
> 
> _Bodrin didn't move. "I warned you not to join up with the likes of them, Gendry. Yet you chose to do it anyway."_
> 
> _Gendry felt defensive. "I was my choice to make. They protect people! I can make a difference here. How many more innocent lives must be lost before the nobles stir up trouble again?"_
> 
> _"And how many vagabonds does it take to start trouble?" he countered. "Rich, poor, young, old… it doesn't matter what social status ye are or who starts a conflict, lad. It doesn't discriminate. The War of the Ninepenny Kings taught us that."_
> 
> _Gendry felt his lip curl upward, feeling frustrated at feeling like he was being scolded again. But before he could even argue, the sound of approaching footsteps and hooves cut their conversation short. Both he and Bodrin saw Thoros of Myr and Beric Dondarrion approach with a woman in a red cloak following behind them. Behind her were ten soldiers bearing the sigil of a crowned black stag encased with a fiery red heart._
> 
> _Whilst Gendry looked in curiosity, Bodrin felt increasingly uneasy._
> 
> _"Forgive me, lad," Beric apologized._
> 
> _In that instant, Gendry felt himself being wrestled by two soldiers and being led to the cart. Despite struggling with his strength, the lad couldn't shake them off._
> 
> _"What are you doing?!" he exclaimed._
> 
> _Bodrin rapidly shot straight up. "Unhand the boy this instant!" he barked. "Beric, have your men release Gendry!"_
> 
> _Beric shook his head mournfully. "I'm sorry, old friend. But we serve the Lord of Light, and the Lord of Light needs this boy."_
> 
> _"Did your fire god tell you that," the old man fumed angrily before turning to Melisandre, "or did she whisper orders in your ear?"_
> 
> _Gendry still struggled against his captors, his face pressing against the cart. A sense of betrayal and anger rose in him. "You told me this was a Brotherhood!" he called out to them. "You told me I could be one of you!"_
> 
> _Beric didn't answer as Melisandre approached the boy._
> 
> _"You are more than they could ever be," she told him. "They are just foot soldiers in the great war. You will make Kings rise and fall."_
> 
> _Her words didn't seem to fit the message; Bodrin somehow believed that Gendry was in even more danger from this woman and those who followed the Lord of Light. Gendry's face grew unsettled and felt defeated; he heard Bodrin move quickly to approach him before being held back by Anguy and Thoros. Despite their disagreements, the old man still sought to protect him as the soldiers handed over two heavy bags of gold to the Brotherhood._
> 
> _"You backstabbing…! Unhand him, you witch!" Bodrin yelled at Melisandre as more soldiers moved to restrain him. "Touch him and I swear you'll all regret it!"_
> 
> _Beric stepped forward. "I don't want to give up the boy either, old friend. But the Red God is the one true god. You've seen His power. When He commands, we obey—"_
> 
> _"I don't care you have to say!" Bodrin snapped at him. "The old Beric Dondarrion I knew fifteen years ago would never have gone through with this!"_
> 
> _"One day you'll understand," he told him._
> 
> _As the cart was beginning to be move away, Bodrin fought against the soldiers who restrained him until he felt himself being released. Before he could rush to grasp Gendry, he felt cold steel sticking into his gut—stopping him in his tracks._
> 
> _"Nnugh," Bodrin gasped, looking down at a small dagger piercing him._
> 
> _Gendry's eyes widened as he was being led away. "NOOO!" he screamed, watching helplessly as he watched Bodrin slowly slumping to the ground clutching his gut, the old man reaching out with one hand._
> 
> _"Gendry…" Bodrin spoke weakly before losing consciousness. 'Forgive me, Gendry. Forgive me, Your Grace. I failed you both…'_

**ooOoo**

Gendry still felt despondent, even within the presence of a highborn lord; his first meeting with Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone. Although he would have felt nervous, Gendry still couldn't shake the thoughts of Bodrin from his mind. Was the old man dead? Did he somehow manage to survive? He received no word from anyone from the Riverlands or from the Brotherhood Without Banners.

_'Damn them all…!'_  Gendry cursed himself.

Stannis turned away from Davos and approached Gendry. The lad was tall for his age, but Stannis still towered over him, jaw clenched and a frown upon his face. Gendry lowered his head to bow, but Stannis cupped the boy's face and brought him back up to gaze at him. His eyes examining up and down, Stannis released his grip.

"Half Robert, half lowborn," he quipped.

Melisandre turned to her escorts. "Show the boy to his chambers. Have the maids draw him a bath and find him some decent clothes."

The guards nodded and took Gendry away, leaving Stannis, Melisandre and Davos alone in the room. The Onion Knight felt a growing sense of unease as he watched them taking the boy away.

"What do you mean to do to him?" Davos asked.

Melisandre looked at him. "There is power in kingsblood, Ser Davos," she told him. "At times a great gift requires a great sacrifice."

_'She's going to kill him,'_ Davos shook his head. "You're  _not_  going to burn a boy," he sharply told her. "Last I heard the King forbade any of your sacrifices from happening again."

The Onion Knight had hoped that would sway Melisandre from going through what she had planned, but the red priestess merely smiled.

"The King is not above the Lord of Light or his laws."

"That doesn't mean we should start burning whomever we displease or on a whim's sake. Is there a difference between murder and sacrifice?" he turned to Stannis. "My lord, I know the look on the lad's face before she took him away. He's from Flea Bottom. If what you just described about him is indeed true, then the boy just happens to be your nephew and the King's half-brother."

"What is the life of one bastard boy against a kingdom?" Melisandre pressed. "The darkness will come and devour all men, women and children unless Lord Stannis triumphs."

"He's done no harm to anyone. The lad has Lord Stannis's blood in his veins."

Stannis looked at both his advisors. "So did Renly, as does Daveth," he reminded them. "But we don't get to choose our destiny, yet we must do our duty, no? Great or small, we must do our duty."

"You're not a man who slaughters innocents for gain or glory, my lord," Davos reminded him. "When my son Matthos was five, he said to me 'I don't ever want to die'. I wanted to say to him 'You won't, child. You won't ever.' I hated the idea of lying awake in the dark alone and afraid," his face grimaced. "Fairy tale or no, I think mothers and fathers made up the story of the gods because they wanted their children to sleep soundly through the night. To give them a life better than the one they themselves had."

Stannis listened, but gave no emotion. "And who's to say which god is real and which isn't? When the truth is laid bare in front of you just as your iron bars were?" he pressed.

Davos shook his head. "I can't see the future in the fire as she or you could, my lord, but I would advise you against such a notion. Not after you see this," he said as he fumbled inside his cloak and drew out a crinkled sheet of parchment.

It seemed a thin and flimsy thing, yet it was all the logical reasoning he had. Stannis took the parchment from his hand and turned away to read it.

"A raven arrived earlier this morning, my lord. Bore a rather urgent message," the Onion Knight continued. "It's from Maester Aemon of the Night's Watch. Their Lord Commander Jeor Mormont is dead. Took a ranging party consisting of 300 men north, but they never made it back. Two lads did, though. Samwell Tarly and Joffrey Baratheon. In their report, they described that what they saw beyond the Wall, it's coming for all of us."

_"I exiled Joffrey to the Wall when he continued to disobey me, not because of the truth regarding his true parentage but because he was a cruel, sadistic and evil little shit—by all accounts worse than the Mad King. I've neither forgiven nor forgotten that,"_  Daveth's words rung through Stannis's head.

The Lord of Dragonstone re-read the letter from the Night's Watch over and over again before handing the parchment over to Melisandre and looking back at Davos.

"When did you learn to read?" he asked.

"Matthos taught me before he died, so I could be of better service to you," Davos answered. "It's… possible that the earlier request from the capital asking us to make a delivery to the Wall could be a result of that, though I cannot say for certain."

Melisandre threw the parchment into the center firepit, watching as the flames grew larger and burned more intensely. Stannis joined her and turned to look into the flames as well; as Melisandre looked into the flames, she spoke just as her ruby began to glow brightly like a red star at her throat.

"All these acts of insurrection means nothing. The true war lies to the north. Death marches on the Wall," she prophesized. "If the Young Stag himself cannot stop him, then it'll be up to you to do so, Stannis Baratheon."

Davos stepped forward. "We've got more than 2,800 cavalry, 10,000 infantry, 20 siege equipment plus 200 ships and men who know how to sail them. And with the additional support of armament, food and volunteers reinforcing the Night's Watch, the battle will end in our favor and garner more support. But we'll need to convince this lord and that lord to fight for you and carry out the King's decree."

"He's right," Melisandre agreed. "You'll need the Onion Knight as well. He has a part to play in the war to come."

Stannis steadied his cloak, his hand gripping the pommel of his blade as he watched the sunset in the distance. "For once the fire god you like to mock so much agrees with you," he said. "Send out every raven to every house along the Crownlands. You're in His army now."

* * *

**Chapter End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A rather short cameo detailing the events surrounding Stannis Baratheon, though the next one will involve Jon Snow and the inevitable Battle of Castle Black. Perhaps we'll see what happens when the Baratheon forces march on the Free Folk army led by Mance Rayder with the additional boost of men, supplies and weapons that could tip the scale in their favor. And what of Gendry's thoughts when Bodrin tried to protect him from behind sold off? But what do you guys think about Bodrin's fate? Do you want him to come back at some point? Let me know in the review section and keep passing on suggestions.


	74. Interlude: Jon Snow

* * *

**At the Wall…**

* * *

The darkness of night had coveted the skies above the sworn brothers of the Night's Watch; winter clouds and freezing winds blew and chilled their bones in anticipation of what's to come. Stationed atop the icy walkway of the Wall, Jon Snow's eyes scoured across the forest trees that lay beyond the Wall—scouting, watching… waiting. He had a rough year and risked a lot to betray the Free Folk he had accompanied and escape to Castle Black to report his findings to the Night's Watch leadership.

_"_ _Mance's army was closing in on Craster's Keep when we left. We saw their campfires from Osric's Hill. They'll reach the Wall before the next full moon,"_  he told them.

Before that, Jon led a small group of his loyal brethren back to Craster's Keep to slay the traitorous mutineers responsible for murdering the previous Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jeor Mormont, before they could pass on any information about Castle Black to the King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder and his massive wildling army—killing their notorious leader Karl Tenner and avenging Mormont's death.

But even so, Jon Snow shook his head as he was still forced to endure public humiliation and ridicule amongst the older veterans—especially the Master-at-Arms Ser Alliser Throne, now serving as Acting Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. When Jon was seen training the additional recruits and suggested sealing the tunnels, Ser Alliser was on him hard.

_"Grenn's a ranger, you're a steward. Maybe you forgot that while you were away with your wildling bitch, but I didn't,"_  Alliser sharply reprimanded him. Or…

_"You would cut off our legs, pluck out our eyes, leave us cowering behind the Wall hoping for the storm to pass?"_

_"We can't defend the gate against 100,000 men."_

_"This castle has stood for thousands of years. The Night's Watch has defended her for thousands of years. And in all those centuries, we have never sealed the tunnel."_

Jon was visibly angry and frustrated with Ser Alliser's dismissals. He knew that even with acquiring an additional 8,500 conscripts and volunteers from across the realm to replenish the Night's Watch's depleted numbers and bolster its ranks to man the other abandoned castles as well as the arrival of shipments containing food, weapons and armor, the Night's Watch was still heavily outnumbered approximately 12:1.

But worse than that… was the thought of leaving Ygritte behind. Jon closed his eyes and sadly frowned, shaking his head as her face entered his thoughts.

_"You know nothing, Jon Snow,"_  Ygritte always taunted Jon.

_"You're brave… Stupid, but brave."_

_"The girl likes you,"_  Mance Rayder told him.  _"You like her back, Snow? That why you want to join us?"_

_"I don't ever want to leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever."_

_"_ _Do you think I'm as dumb as all those girls in silk dresses you knew growing up? You're loyal and you're brave,"_  she told him. _"You didn't stop being a crow the day you walked into Mance Rayder's tent. But I'm your woman now, Jon Snow. You're going to be loyal to your woman. The Night's Watch don't care if you live or die. Mance Rayder don't care if I live or die. We're just soldiers in their armies and there's plenty more to carry on if we go down. It's you and me that matters to me and you._ _Don't ever betray me. Because I'll cut your pretty cock right off, and wear it around me neck."_

Jon felt honor bound to commit to his vows to the Night's Watch, though that did little to ease the pain he felt in his heart. He missed Ygritte deeply and yet he still betrayed her when he killed the wildling warg Orell and three other wildlings under Tormund Giantsbane's command before making his daring escape.

_"I do know some things,"_  Jon told Ygritte. _"I know I love you. I know you love me. But I have to go home now."_

Although Jon did manage to get away and return to Castle Black, Ygritte still shot him with three arrows—two in his back and another in the leg. That was the last time Jon Snow ever saw Ygritte… and as he continued scouring the lands north of the Wall, Jon approached Ser Alliser on the top of the Wall and both saw what Jon knew what was bound to happen: before their very eyes, Mance Rayder delivered on his promise to light the biggest fire the North has ever seen. Stepping out from the forests in the dead of night, the presence of a massive wildling army emerged—their numbers including giants riding atop mammoths. Shouts, taunts and bellows could be heard from several miles away.

"Our brothers' have the last of the oil set into place, Ser Alliser," he informed him.

Alliser looked at the bastard. "100,000 you say?"

"Yes, ser."

"You can say it if you like," he admitted ruefully. "We should have sealed the tunnel while we had the chance, like you suggested."

"It was a difficult decision either way, ser," Jon shook his head, but held his head high with confidence, "but at least our pleas for help were at least answered. We did pick up more men and supplies from the realm—more than we've ever received from the centuries. Our new brothers have been stationed at the other castles. Deep Lake, Queensgate, Shadow Tower, Long Barrow, Sentinel Stand, Eastwatch-by-the-Sea… Greyguard stands re-manned and ready to launch a flanking maneuver against the wildlings."

Alliser stared blankly. "Aye, the Night's Watch has gotten stronger but we're still nowhere near as strong as it once was during Aegon Targaryen's conquest 300 years ago," he paused. "Do you know what true leadership means, Lord Snow?"

Jon raised an eyebrow; what prompted the Acting Lord Commander to ask such a question at such a pivotal moment?

"It means that the person in charge gets second-guessed by every clever little twat with a mouth. But if he starts second-guessing himself, that's the end… for him, for the clever little twats, for everyone. This is not the end. Not for us. Not if you lot do your duty for however long it takes to beat them back. And then you get to go on hating me and I get to go on wishing your wildling whore had finished the job."

However brief that moment of compassion was, Jon Snow still hated it whenever Ser Alliser Thorne referred to Ygritte as a mere 'wildling whore'. Yes, she was a wildling, but Jon still loved her in spite of everything that's happened.

"Joffrey! Get up here, boy!" the Acting Lord Commander snapped.

Joffrey Baratheon, having recovered from his wounds, hesitantly staggered up holding one of the new crossbows delivered from the capital.

"You know how to use a sword?" he asked.

Joffrey stammered. "I… I prefer t-the crossbow, ser."

Ser Alliser looked crossed. "So the answer's a 'no' then? How you and Tarly of all people came to be the most useless of all little twats here I'll never come to understand."

The exiled Prince opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off quick.

"See them?" Alliser pointed to certain factions in the wildling army. "Those are Thenns at our walls. They eat the flesh of the men they kill. Do you want to fill the belly of a Thenn tonight?"

Joffrey stood still, shivering from the cold as he shook his head 'no.'

"Then you'd best pick up a sword and learn how to use it properly. Keep it close, ready to bloody it. 'Cause if you can't get off more than one shot, then you're as good as dead. I didn't waste 20 years of my life training you useless recruits all so you could just bring shame on the Night's Watch."

***HORN!***

Ser Alliser stood near the edge of the Wall, listening to the sounds of the wildling army bellowing, shouting and cursing. Raising his fist up high, the Acting Lord Commander turned to the assembled Night's Watch defenders.

"Archers nock!" he ordered. "Everyone else hold!"

The archery team pulled the strings on their bows back, flame-tipped arrows pointed and ready to fire on command. Joffrey, meanwhile, shakenly pulled out a lever and placed it on his crossbow—pulling the string back with the mechanical construct and placed a bolt in the center before bringing up to aim. Grenn was nearby, loading the ramps with barrels filled with oil. Unfortunately, the lad lost his footing and slipped—accidently dropping the barrel.

"Grenn, no!" Eddison shouted.

As Grenn quickly staggered on his knees to grasp it, the wooden barrel fell off the Wall until it crashed against the icy bottom. Ser Alliser saw that and was fuming.

"I said nock and hold, you cunts! Does nock mean draw?!" he yelled.

"No, ser!" they shook their heads.

"Does fucking hold mean fucking drop?!"

"No, ser!"

"You all plan to die here tonight?!"

"No, ser!"

"That's very good to hear!" Alliser continued drilling his men. "Draw!"

***STRETCHING!***

***HORN!***

Alliser, Jon and Joffrey turned behind them at the sound of another warning horn coming from Castle Black itself below.

"What's going on down there?!" Alliser yelled.

One of the new Night's Watch recruits, Channer of House Morshall, slid across the ground and quickly approached the Acting Lord Commander.

"The widlings! They're attacking the southern gate!" Channer reported.

"Now?!"

"Yes, ser. Now! They're being led by a wildling with a fierce beard who led the sack of Mole's Town!"

_'That's…'_  Jon thought. "Tormund Giantsbane," he said. "How many widlings does he have in his warband?"

"300."

"Has word been sent to the other castles?"

Channer nodded. "More of our brothers from the Shadow Tower and Sentinel Stand are currently on their way, but Castle Black needs help right now before the wildlings breach the north gate!"

Ser Alliser gritted his teeth. "Ah, fuck! I'm going down there. You lots hold the Wall!"

"Wha…?" Joffrey sputtered.

The Acting Lord Commander quickly spun around. "What are you fucking waiting for? Loose!" he shouted before turning to reinforce Castle Black.

Joffrey shook his head left and right. "Wh-what are you fools waiting for? We need to attack them! Loose!" he panicked.

"Joffrey, wait!" Jon exclaimed.

***TWANG!***

Wave after wave, a barrage of fire-tipped arrows shot through the night sky. Most of the arrows miss their targets with the exception of a few lucky enough to hit several taunting wildlings who stood too close within range. Regardless, the massive wildling army of 100,000 still remained standing holding their shields up and bellowing more, louder shouts and taunts. Down below, the Night's Watch defending the gates of Castle Black took out their fair share of wildlings, but the warband led by Tormund Giantsbane and Styr still kept coming.

"Let's go teach 'em crows how we Free Folk fight!" he roared.

Ygritte drew her bow, stretched back and released—her arrow piercing 10 targets whilst theirs missed her. She joined her brethren in throwing up hooks to climb the walls. Ser Alliser and 100 men fought to hold off the wildlings as they climbed over the gate and into Castle Black itself.

"Protect the gate!" he hollered.

Alliser looked up to see Tormund knocking a Night's Watch brother down a flight of stairs before parrying a blow from another before stabbing him through the chest. More and more Night's Watchmen moved to attack, Tormund proved a very dangerous fighter and killed multiple men that came at him. As the Acting Lord Commander rushed up the steps, unfortunately, Tormund heard Alliser approaching from behind and quickly spun around.

"Rraah!" he roared.

Swinging his makeshift blade, Ser Alliser and Tormund engage in single combat. Locking blades, Tormund pushes the Acting Lord Commander backwards before lunging forward. Ser Alliser narrowly rolled to the side, the wildling blade hitting only the wooden rail before charging at him again. Tormund grabbed Ser Alliser by the throat and lifted him up off the ground, but is met with two hard punches—forcing the wildling chieftain to stumble backwards; but only for a moment. Before Ser Alliser could raise his blade to strike again, Tormund charged and tackled him again.

"Savage barbarian…!" Ser Alliser cursed at him, pressing forward.

Tormund rolled backwards and ducked down, grabbing the hilt of Ser Alliser's weapon before swinging his own blade across his enemy's midsection.

"Gah!" the Acting Lord Commander exclaimed in pain.

Getting back on his feet, Tormund pressed his advantage, roaring as he brought down multiple blows on Ser Alliser's sword before the wounded Acting Lord Commander rolled off and landed on a pile of straw below. Back on the northern side of the Wall, a giant seen riding a mammoth begins motioning for his tribesmen and dozens of wildlings to move forward and breach the Outer Gate.

***** " **Bahruuuuuuhhhhaaaaa!** " *****

On top of the Wall, Joffrey Baratheon—having no true leadership experience and the thought of actually facing someone he knows he can't best in battle again—quickly reverted to his noticeably cowardly state.

"This isn't real…" Joffrey stammered. "A bunch of thieves, murders and cutthroats that's what the Night's Watch is. I was a Prince. Royalty! People obeyed my orders without question."

Jon Snow felt his patience wearing thin at Joffrey's sudden cowardice. "We can't just let them attack the gate!"

"You heard the man, Snow. Those bars are four inches of cold-rolled steel."

"Those are giants riding mammoths down there! Do you think your cold-rolled steel is going to stop them?"

Joffrey shook his head. "No such thing as giants," his voice cracked with denial. "A story for the children."

Grenn and Eddison along with a dozen of their sworn brothers looked on in shame and frustration at Joffrey's behavior. Jon Snow felt his frustration boil at such cowardice and the inability if not outright refusal to contribute towards the Night's Watch's goals and decided to take matters into his own hands.

"Damn it, Joffrey!" Jon cursed. "Archers, nock your arrows!"

Grenn and Eddison nodded with approval as did others.

"Nock arrows!"

"Draw!"

***STRETCHING!***

"Loose!"

***TWANG!***

Emboldened with  _real_  leadership, the Night's Watch archers fired off a barrage of arrows. The charging wildling armies began suffering more losses to Jon Snow than they did with Ser Alliser Throne as each were hit with several arrows hitting their targets; regardless, the Free Folk forces were still large as most who made it to the Wall pulled out their pickaxes and dug their spiked cleats into the 700-foot tall, 300-mile long icy fortification. Jon Snow looked down and noticed what the next move would be.

"They won't summit before dawn."

"How do you know that?" Grenn asked.

"Because I've made that climb," Jon pointed out.

"I think they're in a bigger hurry than you were," Eddison humorously countered.

Justain Flowers, a bastard recruit, rushed to approach Jon Snow. "Reinforcements have arrived! Our brothers from the Shadow Tower and Sentinel Stand have taken the field to drive the wildlings back from Castle Black!"

Jon nodded and motioned for his brethren to begin the next phase. Attaching squads of two archers with harnesses and having them face directly downwards, the Night's Watch shot their bows and arrows at the Free Folk climbing the Wall. Whilst some of the wildlings on the ground moved to return fire, their arrows were far too short to reach the black brothers on top of the wall. One the giants, however, Dongo crouched onto one knee next to him, pulls a massive bow and shoots a ballista bolt at the Wall, wreaking havoc on their defenses.

"Seven hells!" cursed recruit Dercin Follard, witnessing the bolt hit a brother with such force it causes him to fly off the other side of the Wall and land in the middle of Castle Black.

"Fuck!" cursed recruit Jallen Foler.

Back in Castle Black, Ygritte aimed her bow—her fingers pulling back the string and releasing it. One by one, her arrows hit their target with sharp accuracy in the head, chest and back as Styr swung his two-handed battleaxe into the chest cavity of four more Night's Watch brothers. Back on the other side of the Wall, the giant king Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg dismounted from his mammoth as soon as it reached the front gate. Attaching chains and hooks from the mammoth to the gate, Jon Snow narrows his eyes from above to examine the activity as he watched three giants, a squad of wildlings and a mammoth began pulling on the gates' bars and hinges.

"The outer gate won't hold," Jon called out. "Grenn, take ten men and hold the inner gate!"

Grenn nodded. "You got it! We'll hold the gate as long as it takes!"

"If they make it through—"

"They won't," he reassured his friend. "Come on, Hill. And you, Copper. You too, Flowers. You seven, on me! Come on, you lazy bastards!"

***HORN!***

Grenn, Donnel Hill, Cooper and Justain Flowers rushed to the lift to reinforce the inner gate and possibly meet resistance from giants on the other side. At Castle Black, Samwell Tarly cradled the body of his dead friend Pypar who received a mortal wound after Ygritte shot him with an arrow through his throat. Samwell, crossbow in hand, moves to reach Castle Black's lift system but is spotted by a Thenn warg. The warg charges at Samwell as he desperately attempts to load his crossbow, managing to do so and fired a bolt into the Thenn's head just before he reaches him.

Samwell arrives to the lift system but notices the mechanical construct lowering someone. Hiding behind a barrel, Samwell notices Grenn, Donnel, Cooper, Justain and seven more rushing out.

"Grenn!" he calls out. "Our reinforcements are putting up a fight, but more wildlings just keep coming!"

Grenn looks over the railing, noticing reinforcements keeping the tide of wildlings at bay. "Yeah, we've pretty much noticed that already!"

"Where's Jon?"

"Still on top of the Wall! He's in command now!"

Back on top of the Wall, Eddison notices the four-inch steel bars were starting to bend and buckle.

"Drop those fucking oils on the giants!" he called out.

Each carrier carrying five explosive barrels, each brother of the Night's Watch lit the fuses and lifted the carrier—watching them roll off and hit the ground with such velocity before exploding on impact, killing most of the human wildlings and setting the mammoth's hindquarters on fire, making it flee in terror. The other giant Dongo runs after it, but is impaled through the back by a huge ballista bolt shot from atop the Wall. The giant king Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg roars in fury as he slips his fingers underneath the gates' bars and forcing it open.

Jon noticed it below. "Edd, you have the Wall," he called out.

Eddison's eyes widened with stunning astonishment and confusion.

"If they try the mammoths again, drop fire on them. If the climbers get too high, drop the scythe on them!"

Eddison shook his head as he watched Jon march into the lift system. "Might as well enjoy our last night, right, boys?" he chuckles. "Light the fuckers up! Nock! Draw! Loose!"

* * *

**At Castle Black…**

* * *

Having decided to assist the reinforcements' battle with the wildlings, Jon Snow rallied what few men he could spare whilst the rest remained with Eddison Tollett. Descending from the Wall, Jon enters the fray with his direwolf Ghost—the albino beast having been released from his pen. Wielding the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw he inherited from the deceased Lord Commander Jeor Mormont, Jon quickly dispatches several wildlings as Ghost mauls several wildlings' throats out. His actions soon catch the attention of Styr.

"Snow!" he snarled.

Gripping Longclaw, Jon and Styr engage in single combat. Although Longclaw did have weightlessness and the reach, the Thenn leader takes advantage of size and strength superiority; gaining the upper hand against Jon Snow by knocking Longclaw away before backhanding Jon across the face before swinging his axe down. Jon sees the Thenn's attack coming and sidesteps, causing Styr to only smash his weapon against the armory collection as Jon retaliates by knocking Styr's axe out of his hands with an iron chain.

Nearby, Ygritte replenished her arrows with scattered ones. Her bow ready and the string pulled back, the spearwife stops for a quick moment when she spots Jon Snow and Styr fighting. Ygritte convinced herself that she wanted revenge for the way her lover betrayed her, but surprisingly couldn't actually bring herself to do it. She shot him with arrows, but deep down couldn't kill him.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***SMACK!***

The duel quickly devolves into a brutal hand-to-hand combat where Styr overpowers Jon and smashes the black bastard's face into an anvil before tossing him into the blacksmith's forge. Jon rolls out of the flames, yet is disoriented and bleeds from his nose. Before he could regain his footing, however, Styr picks Jon up and begins strangling him.

"After ye die, I'm gonna eat ya," Styr grinned wickedly. "And yer friends, we're gonna eat 'em too. Say yer prayers, Jon Snow!"

Finding himself in a similar situation from his fight with Karl Tanner, Jon spat in Styr's face, momentarily blinding him.

"Gah!" Styr disgustedly exclaimed.

Noticing the blacksmith hammer within arm's reach, Jon grabs it and smashes it into a distracted Styr's head with a sickening thud.

***CRACK!***

The force of the impact buried part of the blacksmith hammer, causing Styr to loosen his grip around Jon Snow as he slumps to the ground. Upon killing Styr, Jon wipes his nose and stumbled around, bruised and exhausted. However, to his great surprise, Jon sees Ygritte pointing her bow at him with an arrow drawn.

"Ygritte…" he coughed.

"Jon Snow…" she greeted coldly.

Despite the fighting going on around them and their… unfortunate reunion, Jon smiles at Ygritte. He still loved her and suspected she felt the same way regardless of her bravado. Even if it's a small act of affection, this appears to cause Ygritte's facial features to somewhat soften—a mix of anger and sadness—and lowers her bow slightly. Before either could say anything else, Ygritte felt a sharp pierce in her back.

***THUD!***

"Nugh!" she gasped.

Ygritte's eyes widened in shock as did Jon Snow's; an arrow had been shot through the wildling spearwife's chest. As she gasped and struggled for breath, Ygritte slowly fell to the ground. Jon looked up to see his squire Olly, a farm boy from the Gift he took on as his steward following the deaths of his parents at the Free Folk's hands. Olly held a bow in his hands and lowered it, confirming Jon's suspicions that he indeed shot the arrow into Ygritte's back and pierced her heart.

Without hesitation, Jon rushed towards Ygritte and held her close in his arms. Sadness, grief and regret quickly took over as he tenderly cradled her. Ygritte's eyes fluttered slightly even while she started coughing up blood.

"Jon Snow…?" Ygritte said, very weakly. It sounded as though the arrow had found a lung. "Is this… a proper castle now? Not… just a tower?"

"It is," he took her hand in his own.

"Good," she whispered. "I wanted t' see… one proper castle before…"

Jon shook his head. "Hush. Don't talk," his voice cracked. "You'll see a hundred castles. I'll have Maester Aemon treat you."

Ygritte smiled at that. "D'you… remember the cave? We should… we should have stayed in the cave…"

"We'll go back there, Ygritte. I promise. You're not going to die."

"Oh." Ygritte cupped his cheek with her hand. "You know nothing… Jon Snow," she sighed, drawing her last breath and closing her eyes one last time.

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jon felt his lip tremble and closed his eyes shut. Now knowing that Ygritte was indeed dead, the bastard black brother merely sat in the courtyard as the fighting around him was reaching its conclusion—pressing his forehead against Ygritte's as waves of emotion swept over him.

Come sunrise, the battle was over. A few wildling lieutenants were taken captive as the still very large force withdrew into the Haunted Forest. Although the Night's Watch remained standing, to Jon Snow, it was a hollow victory. The enemy was pushed back, but he knew they'd return again the next day… However, the worst of it all was losing the woman he loved again. Permanently.

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy god, I'd never thought I'd reach the epic Battle of Castle Black. A bit of changes here and there, some new faces among the Night's Watch and an increase from ~100 men to 8,500—stronger, well-equipped and larger but still nowhere near the peak they held from their absolute best of 10,000 during Aegon the Conqueror. Was that technically considered enough to man the other abandoned castles or no? Joffrey, although showing a moment's courage, quickly deflated again (no surprise there). This time I figured I'd make casualties among the Night's Watch a bit lighter so I'll let you guys know if you are big fans of Grenn I'll be keeping him around. So stay tuned for the next chapter. Thoughts? Let me know.


	75. A Bitter Taste, A Bitter End

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Far across the capital city of King's Landing, bells began to ring.

The hour of reckoning had come. Ever since the trial by seven reached its conclusion at the Dragonpit, it wasn't long for word to spread throughout the capital city like wildfire. Ever since Lord Protector Petyr Baelish and Queen Mother Cersei Lannister lost the trial and were ultimately sentenced to death by King Daveth I Baratheon, the security was tight. The Dragon Gate, the Lion Gate and the Old Gate were closed and barred. The Mud Gate and the Gate of the Gods were open, but only to those who wanted to enter the city; the City Watch guardsmen let no one out. Those who were allowed to leave left by the King's Gate or the Iron Gate, but Baratheon men-at-arms in orange cloaks and antler-crested helms manned the guard posts there. Wagons and carriages were searched thoroughly, riders were forced to open their saddlebags and anyone who tried to pass on foot was quickly apprehended by the gold cloaks.

Gathering with his advisors, Daveth quietly brushed a palm over his cheek—his fingers tracing over the bruise left by the Mountain's backhanded strike. Today's sentencing was probably without a doubt the hardest thing he's ever had to do; the Young Stag had longed to rid himself of Littlefinger, but… his own mother, Cersei, his own flesh and blood… would be condemned as a traitor as well. His grandfather and Hand, Lord Tywin, had refused to gather at the courtyard.

_"Whatever mother was or has done, grandfather, she's still your daughter,"_  Daveth told him.

_"Her actions have disgraced the Lannister name for far too long. She is no daughter of mine,"_  Tywin coldly retorted, a hint of anger and humiliation flashed beneath his pale green eyes before leaving the Tower of the Hand's study.

     
  

Daveth sharply shook his head. His breathing short, shallow and hurried, his right hand clenched into a fist and shook. The Young Stag's anxiety and stress levels were rapidly building until the day of the sentencing had finally arrived. Daveth worked to quickly gather his thoughts and steady himself as the Master of Ships Lord Randyll Tarly entered the room.

"It's time, Your Grace," he said gruffly.

The Young Stag looked over his shoulder. "Everyone is gathered in the courtyard?"

Randyll maintained a serious posture. "All, but two: the King's Hand… and the Master of Laws."

"Prince Oberyn is not joining us?" he asked.

Varys, the Master of Whisperers, slid into the room. "It seems that not long after the trial by seven ended, the Red Viper and his paramour left the city under cover of night. My little birds searched his quarters… and Littlefinger's brothel, but we only found his resignation letter and the Mountain's corpse without a head. If anything, I would assume the only place he'd go to is Dorne."

_'Oberyn just left…? And he didn't do me the courtesy of informing me?'_  he thought incredulously. Daveth shook his head. "What news have you heard of that disgraced ex-maester of mother's? Qyburn? They've been pretty close the past year."

"My little birds are scouring every inch of the city and beyond if possible," the eunuch murmured, "yet so far nothing yet."

_'He can't run and hide forever. The old man's bound so show up again sooner or later at some point,'_  Daveth suspected. "We'll make an inquiry later. For now, let's go."

"At once, Your Grace."

"Tell my brother Prince Tommen that he's coming as well."

That raised a few eyebrows among his advisors, especially from his uncle Tyrion Lannister. "Ah, Your Grace," the Imp politely protested, "are you sure that's appropriate of you? I mean… dragging the boy to witness his own mother's execution—"

Daveth shook his head. "Tommen is 14, but he won't be a boy forever. And if he is to ever succeed me then he needs to learn what it means to rule, not remain coddled or sheltered."

Grand Maester Pycelle's chain clinked. "Euh, ah… in that case, s-shall I bring Queen Sansa with us, Your Grace?" he asked.

The Young Stag delved into deep thought. His wife, Sansa Stark, had recently entered into her 8-month pregnancy and remained bedridden due to general discomfort in her back and feet, shortness of breath, fatigue and had a difficult time sleeping among other symptoms. Her mistress and Tyrion's lover, Shae, privately told Daveth that it would be unwise to have Sansa move around so much in her condition.

_"Perhaps you aren't aware of this, but I've seen this a few times at brothels where I'm from,"_  Shae told him, her voice thick in her Lorathi accent.  _"She can't move around too much and must be taken care of regularly until the baby comes. No exceptions!"_

Daveth looked at Pycelle. "No. Go now. We've lingered about long enough."

The Grand Maester lowered his head as the Small Council advisors left the room. Daveth looked in the mirror, rubbing his eyes as he took another breath.

"Damn you, mother… for forcing me to do this," he said to himself quietly.

Despite the growing antagonism that had manifested between them these last six years, Daveth still loved his mother even if Cersei no longer felt the same way. Once he composed himself and dressed himself, the Young Stag readied himself. When he stepped into the hallway, Daveth noticed young Tommen standing—meekly twiddling his thumbs as he looked up at his eldest brother uncomfortably.

"Brother…" he spoke softly.

"Come, Tommen."

The air was tense, heavy even. Tommen didn't want their own mother be put to death, but the laws of gods and men were clear. Either by court trial or a trial by combat, Cersei lost and was declared guilty of treasonous crimes. Petyr Baelish was stripped of all titles, including Lord Protector of the Vale and Lord of Harrenhal. Accompanying them down the road of Aegon's High Hill was Lord Yohn Royce of Runestone, head of the Vale delegation.

"Who would've thought that I'd be here to see the day where that grubby little man finally answer for the crimes committed against House Arryn," Yohn mentioned Petyr.

"'Always keep your foes confused. If they can't figure out who you are or what you want, they can't know what you plan to do next.' Littlefinger told me that once. As cunning and conniving as he was, Littlefinger's actions were bound to catch up to him eventually," Daveth brushed it off. "Beaten at his own game. Huh! He failed to understand that intrigue and deception only work for so long if there's no purpose beneath the surface besides selfishness and lust for power. If you stand for nothing besides yourself, sooner or later you'll end in disgrace."

Varys listened, keeping his arms beneath his sleeves.  _'Clever boy,'_  he mused to himself.

"And how long did you suspect this man?" Yohn asked.

"From the very beginning, Lord Royce."

"Yet why couldn't you let us apprehend Littlefinger the moment Lady Arryn bent the knee?"

"Because one, I needed cold, hard evidence. All I had at the time were theories; and secondly, make a wrong move and your position will be exposed. King's Landing can be a nest of vipers to the uninitiated. No offense, Lord Royce."

Yohn was blunt. "None taken, Your Grace."

Daveth sighed wearily. The group had taken a slight turn at a 45 degree angle past the central plaza as they made their way south nearing Visenya's Hill. The Young Stag reached into his pocket and unveiled an old trinket—the front of the medallion was blue and bore the sigil of a white falcon on a crescent moon. Yohn noticed the subtle arm movement out of the corner of his eye.

"That's…"

Daveth nodded. "Jon Arryn gave me this on my tenth nameday. He told me that 'Family is not always about blood ties or noble houses, but rather it is a bond between those around you. The ones who want you in their life just as much as you want them in yours. It is that bond no one can ever take away.' His teachings, his approach to life… he'll always be a part of me."

Yohn smiled. "I'm sure Lord Arryn would be proud of you, Your Grace."

"Sometimes I wonder about that," he shook his head, uncertain. "Not everything I've done in my life is something to be proud of."

Varys chimed in. "You give yourself far too little credit. The people know that without you, the realm be quickly reduced to a land where the powerful prey on the powerless."

"How can you be so sure? I'm about to put my own mother to death in a matter of moments—"

"You know which of your friends are  _not_  your friends," the eunuch interrupted. "It is a terrible thing, I'll admit; a vile thing. And sometimes we must do vile things for the good of the realm. But do you want to know what I believe? My loyalties don't lie with any King or Queen, but with the people. The people who suffer under despots and prosper under just rule. The people whose hearts you've already won. I was spymaster under your father before you and the Mad King before him, but in the end I choose  _you_  because I know the people have no better chance than you to deliver results."

Daveth felt taken aback and felt his feet stop moving. He hadn't seen or heard Varys speak with such heat before. He looked over his shoulder. "If you think I'm failing or straying too far from the path, Varys, I want you to look me in the eyes and tell me how exactly I'm failing."

"You learn from your mistakes through pain," Varys admitted. "That alone helps in the long run."

_'Sometimes I can never understand you. What makes you you,'_  the Young Stag thought.

Tommen nudged his brother. "But… why, brother? Why go through with this? I mean, our mother—"

"Some crimes are far too great to ignore, Tommen. Can't be too lenient or strict when it comes to punishing traitors. If you're too lenient, then you'll be accused of being weak and ineffective. If you're too strict, then you risk facing another civil war like Aerys Targaryen did."

"But she's our mother!"

"I know that!" Daveth snapped. "Look, I hate this just as much as you do and it makes me sick to my stomach, but this is treason. A capital offense. You can't just walk away from that. Our mother has done things you would not believe. You didn't see what she's been doing all this time."

"But why?" Tommen asked.

Daveth pinched the bridge of his nose as he made his way past the gathering crowd into the courtyard. He had chosen a spot located further away from the Great Sept of Baelor as the High Septon and Faith of the Seven considers any shedding of blood either in or around the Sept is regarded as blasphemy against the gods and is a forbidden act. So the execution site was located elsewhere.

"You'll see for yourself soon enough, little cub," he told him. "You might not like it, but sooner or later you'll understand that everything I do is for your own good."

Once going past the King's Gate, the Small Council advisors spotted the growing crowds gathering around a wooden makeshift gallows. Randyll Tarly noticed the King's Justice, Ser Ilyn Payne wrapping rope around Cersei Lannister's and Petyr Baelish's feet. Above them were two loops of rope with knots tightened together into a noose which Ser Ilyn brought down to wrap around their necks.

"You plan on hanging them?" he asked gruffly. "Your Grace, nobles guilty of serious crimes are often executed by beheading. Hanging is more meted out to lowborn criminals."

Daveth stared at the gallows. "Does it matter?" he retorted. "They shouldn't have made it personal the way they did. Let's just get this over with."

When the bell ceased to toll, a long line of gold-cloaked spearmen held back the crowd and made room for the King to approach the gallows. The smallfolk and regional lords gathered at the courtyard near the tourney grounds. Petyr felt the noose around his neck tighten as he watched Daveth ascend the steps; Cersei, meanwhile, frowned deeply and let out a quiet scowl—her eyes trained on her firstborn. The High Septon quietly prayed, reading passages from  _The Seven-Pointed Star_.

 

"The Father reached his hand into the heavens and pulled down seven stars," he recited, "and one by one set them on the brow of Hugor of the Hill to make a glowing crown. The Maid brought him forth a girl as supple as a willow with eyes like deep blue pools, and Hugor declared that he would have her for his bride. So the Mother made her fertile, and the Crone foretold that she would bear the King 44 mighty sons. [...] The Warrior gave strength to their arms, whilst the Smith wrought for each a suit of iron plates… [...] Do not presume to know the damned. The foulest murderer may repent and seek the Mother's mercy before the end. The honest Septon may pray every night and still be found wanting. The Seven Hells brim with the souls of saintly men. They scream in agony and their shame is so great. They do not feel the flames, for now they see if not for a single sin they concealed, they were saved."

Standing beside Petyr Baelish, Daveth raised his hand up to silence the crowd. "If you have any last words, now is the time."

"You'll be fighting more battles in the months and years to come, both in mind and body," declared Petyr. "By the day's end, Your Grace, know that the joys of life will eventually turn to ashes in your mouth when you least suspect it."

Daveth turned his head to meet Littlefinger's eyes. "When that day comes, I'll be ready," he said as the Young Stag moved to his mother, meeting her eyes.

Cersei's scowl ran deeper. "I carried you into this world," she hissed venomously. "I fed you, raised you… But I should have known sooner that you would betray me."

"I'm not the one who killed father."

"When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground," Cersei looked to the crowd before sinking her eyes towards Daveth again. "I raised you to forward our family's interest."

"You mean  _your_  interests. Pity; for you're a Lannister no longer."

A rotten onion came sailing out of the crowd. Daveth stepped back as he saw it hit his mother. Cersei exclaimed in cold fury as the spoiled vegetable splattered upon impact, its juices slid down her cheek. More rotten vegetables and dung followed. One struck the gold cloak to Randyll's left. Another went clanging off the breastplate of another gold cloak.

"ENOUGH!" Randyll bellowed.

As protestors were removed, Tommen watched on in horror and heartache. "Mother…" he spoke meekly.

Cersei observed her youngest son, her emerald green eyes pierced the young cub and he scuttled backwards beside Daveth lowering his head in shame and guilt.

"See what you've done?" she spat. "You did this. You are no son of mine…!"

For a moment, Daveth slightly flinched and felt a pang in his chest. He couldn't lie; that barb still stung. Even Tyrion himself frowned with disappointment at Cersei's statement; as opposed to Tommen whose frown was much sadder. As Cersei huffed and puffed, glaring at Daveth, her face twisted in spiteful indignation seething with hate. The Young Stag swallowed the lump in his throat before quickly recomposing himself.

"Wrong again," he whispered quietly enough for Cersei to hear him. "I  _am_  your son. And despite everything you've done, every harm you've inflicted, every lie you've told… I will  _always_  be your son."

With nothing more left to be said, Daveth backed off and stared at the crowd.

"As we sin, so do we suffer," the High Septon intoned, in a deep swelling voice much louder than the slurs. "This man and this woman have been condemned in the sights of Gods and men. The Gods are just, but Baelor the Blessed taught us they can also be merciful. What is to be done, Your Grace?"

A thousand voices were screaming, but Tommen covered his ears and shut his eyes closed. He didn't want to hear or see any of this, but felt a tug on his shoulder.

"Don't think about looking away, my Prince," Randyll scolded him. "Your brother will know if you do."

Tommen slowly yet reluctantly re-opened his eyes and turned his head to face Daveth and Cersei. His own flesh and blood still locked, his family being torn apart from the inside… The Young Cub felt utterly helpless at wanting to do anything to keep his family intact and away from each other's throats. But he knew it couldn't happen. Not in this life. Daveth felt his hands shaking and twitching, clenching his fists into a tight ball to steady them as he shook his head again.

_'Seven hells, this… this is much harder than I thought,'_  he told himself. "The Father judges us all and punishes those who believe themselves beyond the reach of justice. The Mother shows mercy to those who beg her forgiveness and repent for their crimes," Daveth spoke and looked straight at Cersei and Petyr. "But Petyr Baelish and Cersei Lannister have turned away from the Crone and chose instead to walk the path of the Stranger. The crimes each of them inflicted are far too great and cannot be ignored. May the Seven turn its gaze upon them," he turned to the King's Justice.

_'Do you really have it in you?'_  Randyll observed.

Daveth shaking inhaled and exhaled. He stared at the gallow's lever. "Ser Ilyn," he called out. "Do it."

The mute King's Justice growled lightly as he gripped the lever and pulled it back, triggering the mechanisms below Petyr's and Cersei's feet. Within moments, the hinged trap door was sprung—causing both Cersei and Petyr to fall through, snapping their necks as they choked on their final breaths. The crowd jeered, gasped and exclaimed; the more so from the lords watching the execution take place before their eyes. Nobles guilty of treason were often executed by beheading – which is considered to be more quick and humane than a comparatively slow death by hanging or crucifixion, which is normally meted out to lowborn criminals. Regardless, the nobles cringed as it is humiliating for one of their own to be hanged.

Tommen felt his lip trembling and bit, trying to hide his emotions—to no avail. He was hurting inside; Daveth, meanwhile, looked blankly at the sight of Petyr and his mother gasping on their final breaths after more than a minute of flailing—his fists curled into a ball as their faces turned blue before they finally went limp. Tyrion, who watched alongside his nephews, felt a sense of regret at the sight of his sister swinging under the noose.

_'I'm sorry, my dear sweet sister,'_  the Imp thought mournfully.  _'Go join mother.'_

Daveth let out an exhale.  _'Goodbye mother,'_  he wanted to say. Once Ser Ilyn determined that there were no signs of life, he gave a curt nod and a growl. "Cut her down," he ordered.

Ser Ilyn unsheathed a sword and cut the rope hanging Cersei Lannister, her body dropped to the ground with a loud thud. Daveth walked down the steps of the gallows with Tommen in tow behind him and knelt down to cradle Cersei's body. Her eyes were still open and wide, her face blue and her face pale… the Young Stag lowered his head and shook mournfully, raising his hand up over his fallen mother's face to bring her eyelids to close them properly.

"Mother…" Tommen whined. He looked like he wanted to cry.

Varys, Tyrion, Randyll and Pycelle made their way to the King who remained cradling his mother's corpse.

"We are deeply sorry that you've had to go through this, Your Grace," the eunuch lowered his head.

Daveth did not look at them. "I know," he said quietly, not making eye contact. "Just… never thought it would hurt this much."

Tyrion walked over and placed a hand on his eldest nephew. "I know this might not mean much, but… Remember Cersei. Remember her as the mother she used to be, not the woman she gradually became."

"I know. You're right," the Young Stag sighed in resignation. "Mother… she wasn't always like this. She used to be… warm, kind. Nurturing; at least in private. I'll always remember her as the mother she was fondly." He looked at Tyrion before looking back at Cersei. "Clean her up and have her body sent back to Casterly Rock," he requested. "Bury her in the crypts. She belonged with our grandmother Joanna Lannister."

Tyrion nodded slowly. Yohn Royce, on the other hand, stepped forward. "And what about him?" he pointed to Petyr, whose body still swung.

Daveth shifted his attention from Cersei to Petyr, his face turning into a deep, cold and hard scowl. "Leave him, burn him, throw his corpse into the sea, I don't care," he spat. "That piece of shit murdered Jon Arryn. I will  _never_  forgive him for that."

"Leave his body hanging above the city gates," Randyll suggested. "Use it as a warning to others foolish enough to consider such treason."

"Fine."

Daveth stood up, still cradling Cersei's body as a wagon approached. He walked over and gently placed his mother's body on the pile of straw, taking a moment to properly fold her arms over her chest. The Young Stag took one final moment to look at his mother before finally turning away.

"I… I need to go. Come."

Daveth turned to march back to the Red Keep, with Tommen and the other Small Council advisors moving to catch up to him. As the crowd began to disperse, a small child was seen rushing over to the Master of Whisperers. The child whispered something inaudible into Varys's ear before dashing away. The eunuch's face scrunched and made his way to the King.

"It appears my little birds have found the missing Qyburn," he whispered.

Daveth looked back. "Where is he?"

Varys pulled Daveth aside and whispered into his ear. The Young Stag's eyes narrowed before widening in astonishment.

"Assemble the City Watch!" he began shouting orders. "Tell Ser Bronn and his men to converge at the Tower of the Hand immediately!"

Tyrion was taken aback at his nephew's startling announcement. Something in the pit of his gut told him there was bound to be trouble… and Lord Tywin was about to be caught right in the middle of it.

* * *

**At the Tower of the Hand…**

* * *

Lord Tywin Lannister, Warden of the West and Hand of the King, shuffled documents as his face retained a cold, angry frown. The Old Lion was still fuming about the actions of his daughter Cersei who he now just disinherited. The actions she's done not only brought disgrace upon House Lannister, but practically tarnished the legacy Tywin worked so hard to build for 41 years. Tywin had not permitted anyone entry into the Tower of the Hand unless he sent for them personally. Light footsteps heralded the arrival of an uninvited guest, however. The door behind him creaked open before closing with the sound of the lock's mechanisms clicking breaking the silence.

  

Tywin stood up. "Who are you?" he frowned. "I did not send for anyone."

Stepping out from the shadows, Qyburn approached the Hand of the King. "Forgive me if you can, my lord Hand. I bear you no ill will. This was not done out of spite or malice."

Tywin became suspicious as Cersei's handmaiden Bernadette stepped out from behind Qyburn with a knife in her hand. The Old Lion heard shuffling come from behind him as he saw more unknown strangers coming into his study from the windows and more brandished knives. Judging by the bruises and scrapes on their fingertips, Tywin deduced they had been climbing the Tower of the Hand and laid in wait.

"What is the meaning of this?" he angrily demanded. "There are hundreds of Lannister guardsmen in this city."

A gust of wind blew into the room, scattering paper off the desk and across the floor.

"But none in this room, I'm afraid. It pains me, my lord Hand," the disgraced ex-maester lamented. "Whatever your faults and flaws, you do not deserve to die alone in such a lonely place. But sometimes, before we can user in the new, the old must be put to rest. It will no doubt unnerve the Oathkeeper himself and eat away at him, to be sure. Lord Baelish and Her Grace send their regards from beyond the grave."

Tywin now felt a sense a danger as the assailants surrounded him in all directions. Despite his old age, the 64-year-old Lannister staged a desperate self-defense; smacking three of them aside, Tywin opened his mouth to summon his guards but is stabbed in the belly by one of Qyburn's assailants. Bernadette, overwhelmed with grief by the loss of her mistress, shoved her knife into Tywin's back as more yanked the Old Lion to his knees and repeatedly stabbed him over and over again.

Qyburn watched the events unfolding before him, blood dripping from Tywin's multiple stab wounds and mouth. The ringing of bells throughout the city snapped his concentration.

"Surround the tower!" Qyburn heard the gold cloaks below.

The ex-maester decided it was time to vacate the facility; his purpose and course of action was clear. Using a secret passage to avoid detection, Qyburn watched from cracks of the escape hatch and listened as gold cloaks and Lannister soldiers storm the Tower of the Hand.

"Lord Tywin!" they yelled. "Seize them! Seize them all!"

A struggle took place as Qyburn made his getaway. No doubt the assailants would be either killed on sight or arrested and executed for assassinating the King's Hand.

_'They did their purpose,'_  he told himself wickedly.  _'One by one, the rest will follow.'_

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bitter taste, a bitter end… and a stunning revelation of Qyburn's whereabouts. Two fall, but so does another. Imagine how hard it was for Daveth to really have to go through with executing his own mother, but think about how hard it was for Tommen to actually be there to witness it firsthand. Despite the overwhelming antagonism, Daveth still saw Cersei as his own mother – even if the feeling was no longer mutual. And remember how I mentioned a few chapters ago that Littlefinger had something up his sleeve? Could the assassination of Tywin Lannister be mentioned as a possibility? Or do you think there's more going on than meets the eye? How will the Young Stag and the rest of House Lannister react to such transgressions? Thoughts? Let me know.


	76. Enter the Lion's Den

* * *

**Within the Great Sept of Baelor…**

* * *

Bells tolled and rung loudly across King's Landing, lords and ladies have assembled in the capital to mourn.

Dressed in all black, King Daveth I Baratheon sat in a royal carriage currently en route to the Great Sept of Baelor to attend his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister's funeral. The following weeks have been nothing but miserable for him; first his father died as a result of a hunting accident, then he executed his own mother for treason… now he learned his grandfather was assassinated. Frowning deeply, his hands gripped his knees so tightly his knuckles were slowly turning white. Sitting across from him in the royal carriage, Queen Sansa Stark donned an all-black dress adorned with raven feathers and a chain pendant necklace. Despite her pregnancy, the Wolf Queen was insistent on being there at the funeral; not just for Lord Tywin, but for Daveth's sake.

Sansa reached and placed her hand on Daveth's palms. "Dearest…" she motioned.

The Young Stag didn't look at her, but his grip somewhat lessened at Sansa's touch and his frowned somewhat dissipated even if it remained present. Perhaps that was some sort of conciliation.

"They killed him, Sansa. Qyburn, Bernadette did this," he told her. "My grandfather, my own blood… I'll have them all hanged for this outrage."

Sansa took his hands from his knees into her own. "I know. Lord Tywin's death took us all by surprise, but they won't get away with this heinous crime. For now you don't have to shoulder this burden alone. We're here for you. Me, Tommen, Lord Tyrion…"

Daveth shook his head. "I know, I know."

The Wolf Queen brushed her thumbs across Daveth's hands, momentarily bringing one hand back to bring it up to her mouth. Sansa felt another disgusting bile climb up her throat again, shuddering slightly as the sensation subsided. Daveth noticed, but said nothing as the cart came to a stop at the stairs.

"We're here, Your Grace," the rider announced.

The carriage door opened and Daveth stepped out, reaching his hand out to help Sansa down the steps. Behind them was another cart, unveiling Ser Barristan, Ser Lucius, Ariyana, Brienne, Tommen and Tyrion following close behind. As the Young Stag walked to the top of the stairs to the Great Sept of Baelor, he maintained a steady pace for his wife, brother, uncle and Kingsguard to keep up. Once or twice, Sansa had to stop as she experienced back and feet ache, sharply inhaling and exhaling whilst keeping one hand on her swollen belly. When the Wolf Queen was all right, the party resumed its march.

Mourners stood on both sides of the aisle, trading glances and quietly offering their condolences to the King. Daveth said nothing, even as he saw Lord Mace Tyrell and his children Ser Loras and Lady Margaery in their black attire wild gilded golden roses and vines stitched into them. Last time the Young Stag encountered the Knight of the Flowers, they were competitors in the Hand's Tourney, then became enemies during Renly's rebellion… now Loras bore a deep curved horizontal scar across his face—a gift from Daveth during the Battle of Blackwater Bay.

"Your Grace," the Tyrells curtsied.

"Hmm," Daveth responded.

Margaery Tyrell in particular quietly observed the Young Stag's steps, breaking contact as soon as Sansa Stark followed after him. At the final step, the High Septon Ollidor lowered his head in acknowledgement. "Your Grace, we are honored by your presence," he greeted. "The mourners are waiting to pay their respects to Lord Tywin."

"Then let's begin."

The High Septon motioned his hands forward, signaling the mourners to follow behind the King. One by one, they each ascended the steps and into the Sept itself. Once inside, the glass in the dome began to lighten with rainbows shimmering off the walls and floors and pillars, bathing Lord Tywin's corpse in a haze of many-colored light. The Silent Sisters had already tended and prepared the services for Tywin to be laid in state for visitors. As with the previous Hand, Tywin was pointed towards the statue of the Stranger, his hands clasped together over his chest clasping a sword pointing downwards. But Tywin's face had taken on a greenish tinge, and was donning a splendid gold-and-crimson armor; two funeral stones with green eyes painted on them with placed on Tywin's closed ones. Candles were lit and banners bearing the sigil of House Lannister surrounding the Seven aspect statues.

The septons were the first to see, when they returned for their dawn devotions. They sang their songs and prayed their prayers and wrinkled up their noses, and one of the Most Devout grew so faint he had to be helped from the sept. Shortly after, a flock of novices came swinging censers, and the air grew so thick with incense that the bier seemed cloaked in smoke. Although the smallfolk, lords and ladies admired the Oathkeeper King, they feared and despised Lord Tywin. Even in the Westerlands, the Old Lion had been more respected than beloved and King's Landing still carried on the memories of the Sack.

Once inside, Sansa Stark was flooded with memories of her father Eddard Stark's funeral two years ago. The funeral stones placed over the closed eyes of the deceased, each painted to resemble open eyes… Sansa closed her eyes, her breathing grew shallower. Ariyana and Brienne stood at her side, clasping her shoulders.

"You don't have to be here if you don't want to be," spoke Brienne.

Sansa shook her head. "No, I… I must. It's more for my husband's sake than it is for mine."

Ser Jaime Lannister, all in gold armor and white cloak, stood beside his father's bier amongst the candles and the crystals and the sickly sweet smell of death. Judging from his posture, Jaime had been standing guard over his father's body for quite some time; his back ached from the weight of his armor and his legs felt almost numb, shifting his stance a bit. Tyrion, meanwhile—despite having a cold antagonistic relationship with his father—still stood alongside his brother to pay his respects.

"He never wanted you to be a Kingsguard," the Imp told him. "You were his golden son."

No response came. Jaime had not slept. It was queer, but he felt no grief. Of all the mourners, Grand Maester Pycelle had seemed the most distraught. Varys and Randyll remained silent as Daveth made his approach to the bier.

"Our father worked to ensure he knew all of it was meant for us," Jaime finally spoke. "I remember. He knew it too. Made me memorize every damn city, town, mountain, lake, forest and mountain every single day until I got each one of them right."

Daveth looked at his grandfather's body. "Seven Kingdoms united in fear of Tywin Lannister," he spoke. "I might not have always agreed with some of his methods, but grandfather got results. I respected him for it."

"An odd definition of the word 'respect'," Jaime looked at Daveth.

"And I meant it. Grandfather taught us many things, especially the importance of working with one's rivals rather than destroy them. And what we must do to our enemies who seek to destroy us."

Jaime tilted his head towards the outer door, keeping his voice down to a minimum. "Look at all of them out there. They're our enemies now. As soon as they see the stones on your grandfather's eyes, they'll seek to tear us further apart."

Daveth detected a small hint in his uncle's voice. "And I won't let them… provided that we are not at each other's throats first."

Sansa looked at her husband and Jaime. Varys, Randyll, Tyrion and the Kingsguard also looked on at the Young Stag's quiet retaliatory tone directed at the Kingslayer. Apparently there was some lingering tension building between Daveth and Jaime since the execution of Cersei—and neither spoke to one another for quite some time.

"Divide and conquer is a strategy not always enacted on a battlefield. We use it at court too." The Young Stag brushed one hand atop Tywin's head. "You know, uncle… Grandfather repeatedly asked me to dismiss you from the Kingsguard."

Jaime blinked, as did the other Kingsguard knights. This was rather new to him.

"He tried to persuade me to leave as well. The day I came back," Jaime replied.

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "What did you tell him?" he asked.

"I told him I don't want Casterly Rock. I don't want a wife. I don't want children. Now it's my turn. What did  _he_  tell  _you_?"

"I told him… if my uncle Jaime Lannister wanted to tear off the white cloak then it would have to be of his own volition, not by my command."

Sansa moved to speak. "Ser Jaime—"

When the doors were opened to the general public, the Tyrells were amongst the first to enter. Margaery had brought a great bouquet of golden roses and placed them ostentatiously at the foot of Lord Tywin's bier, but kept one back and held it beneath her nose as she took her seat. Margaery's ladies-in-waiting followed her example. Ser Loras Tyrell used the opportunity to approach Daveth, even as the other Kingsguard had their hands gripped on their sword grips considering the two were once enemies.

"It was such a deep, deep shock to us all," Loras said politely. "Your grandfather was a force to be reckoned with. He truly was. I wouldn't presume to claim to have known him as such, but just being in his presence was enough to make it so clear just how formidable a person you were dealing with. What a… what a force to be reckoned with."

Daveth rolled his eyes. "That he was, Ser Loras." He glanced across to see Varys motioning him over. "Excuse me. I have other matters to attend to."

The Young Stag walked away, leaving Sansa to tend to the visiting dignitaries—each of them expressing their condolences and remarking how more beautiful the Wolf Queen's was becoming.

"Deepest condolences, Your Grace," Pycelle said to Daveth. "This tragedy… Qyburn is arrogant, dangerous. I told them all…"

Daveth ignored the Grand Maester and pushed right past him, walking up towards Varys. "What is it, Varys?" he asked quietly.

"I know the timing itself is inappropriate," the eunuch whispered, "but my little birds have been whispering things into my ear. Calls have been made, and long owed favors collected. They tell me our contacts under the command of Ser Kevan Lannister have apprehended our missing friend and his lovely associate along Crackclaw Point trying to book passage across the Narrow Sea to Essos, though not without expecting a fierce struggle from both them and some of the locals; a bunch of sellswords, no less."

"And where are they now?"

"You will be pleased to know that they've found their way into the black cells. Under heavy guard."

"Good. I would like to see them," Daveth nodded, pleased. He looked across the Great Sept of Baelor, his eyes observing Sansa greeting mourners, paying tribute to Lord Tywin and kneeling to pray at the foot of the statue of the Crone with Shae. Tommen and Margaery interacting with one another…

Randyll approached the two. "We'll be keeping a close watch on the Queen. Make sure no harm comes to her."

Daveth's tense muscles relaxed for a moment. "Very well. See to it that she returns to the Red Keep once the funeral ends."

"At once, Your Grace."

As soon as the Master of Ships and Lord of Horn Hill leaves, Daveth returns his gaze towards Varys'. "Take me to them."

The Master of Whisperers quietly smuggled the Young Stag out of the Great Sept of Baelor, none suspecting or even realizing his disappearance. It wasn't until Ser Lucius Blackmyre scanned the crowd of mourners did the Old Bull suspect something.

"Where's the King?" he asked.

Apparently, Ser Lucius's voice was loud enough for Sansa to lift her head up and start searching the Great Sept of Baelor. Everywhere she looked, the Wolf Queen couldn't find Daveth. With Shae helping her to her feet, Sansa groaned and turned to Ser Barristan.

"Lord Commander," she asked, "go find the King. Please."

Barristan evidently noticed Daveth's disappearance as well. "At once, Your Grace." He nodded and left the Great Sept of Baelor, leaving all in attendance behind.

_'Don't tell me that…'_

* * *

**At the Red Keep's dungeons…**

* * *

He looked visibly tired, but it this was overdue. A debt needed to be repaid. Descending down the stairs and into the darkest depths of the Black Cells, Daveth observed Ser Ilyn Payne and Lady Reina Fishport standing guard over the recently captured Qyburn and Bernadette in a torch lit section beneath the Red Keep itself. Qyburn and Bernadette were chained to walls opposite of each other, both of them gagged, bloodied and bruised. The Young Stag examined each of them and determined that such physical injuries were sustained when Varys's spies caught them around Crackclaw Point. Understandably the region is full of bogs and pine trees not regularly travelled by outsiders.

Even so, Daveth stood face-to-face with his grandfather's killers. Bernadette he's known as his mother's handmaiden, but Qyburn was a mystery to him. Disgraced and stripped of his chain, the former maester was suggested by Pycelle as a threat.

Dropping to one knee, Daveth stared at Qyburn.

"I've been told that we had some difficulty catching the likes of you, old man. Not surprising, of course. You did find one gap in our security and exploited it. That one flaw allowed you to move in and out of King's Landing freely, but it also gave you the tool necessary to bring down the Hand of the King himself.  _My_  Hand,  _my_  grandfather.  _My_  blood."

Bernadette struggles against her restraints. Qyburn, bloodied and bruised, lifted his head as the Young Stag tilted his head towards Varys and Reina.

"Varys is the cleverest man I've ever known. Collectively the Spider controls more spies and informants than the rest of the world combined. Given his talent as Master of Whisperers, Varys is damn good at what he does and knows how to get results."

Varys said nothing; neither did Reina. They both know it is wise to remain silent whenever the Oathkeeper continued ranting.

"And Reina, here, is one of my best agents. Starting out as a mere commoner now elevated to the nobility as Lady of Summerhall, her mind's not only as sharp as a blade, but she also has good intuition and thinks on her feet. But I needn't tell you that. Luck eventually runs out."

Bernadette struggles against her restraints. Daveth noticed this as an act of defiance and ceased ranting; dropping his tone as cold, dark and serious.

"To believe yourselves capable of avoiding detection forever and elude justice was sheer careless on your part… The idea of such imbeciles running amok knows no limits." He turned to Bernadette. "You, a simple handmaiden in service to House Lannister, had a role to play in the assassination of your liege lord, my grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock. Hard to imagine that blind loyalty of yours could one of these days reveal you to be nothing but a mere turncoak. This must have been difficult for you. Then again I suppose that was how mother instructed you to be. I've tolerated you for years, but you've crossed the line in which there is no return."

Bernadette bit into her gag cloth, still acting defiant. Varys and Reina looked appalled at the disgraced handmaiden's behavior; but Daveth redirected his attention towards Qyburn.

"And you, Qyburn. A former maester expelled from the Citadel, stripped of your chain by the Archmaesters and banished from Oldtown for conducting your… unethical, illegal 'human experiments.' All for the sake of pursuing medical knowledge, am I right? You knew what you were doing was wrong, old man. Morally, ethically. You knew you shouldn't have crossed that line, but you did it anyway. I've tolerated you ever since mother took you under her charge and treated Ser Jaime's cuts during his time as Lord Randyll Tarly's prisoner during the war. But perhaps it was that significant oversight that gave you a sense of entitlement to do as you please in my presence," his voice broke in anger. "You took my grandfather! Why did you do that?! What could you have possibly hoped to gain from it?!"

Qyburn's gag remained, as Bernadette continued yanking her chain. Daveth took a moment to collect his wits before he acted on emotional impulse again.

"Doesn't matter now. Subtlety can only be used by those who know how to properly use it. In your hands, it's nothing but a one-sided tool."

"Your Grace…" Reina spoke. "They're both guilty, I know. But who better to face true judgment from the Gods themselves than the one who brandished the knife first  _before_  the one who gave the order?"

Varys and Ser Ilyn looked at Daveth; the Young Stag gave this thought before giving a slight nod. Bernadette appeared to understand what Reina words can possibly mean as she began to be more vocal despite the gag.

"Mhmph! Mmm-MMmm!" her voice muffled.

Daveth looked at her, raising an eyebrow with slight amusement. "Hmm? What's that now? You've got something to say?" he mocked. Shifting his position, Daveth moved towards Bernadette and brought his hand forward to stroke her hair. "Tell me: do you feel powerful now? Hmm? You both chose to murder my grandfather; must have made you felt quite powerful when you sunk your blade deep into his flesh. Does your future look bright when you look at me? Hmm?"

Bernadette shook her head to move it away, but Daveth roughly brought her face back to meet his gaze.

"I haven't slept very well since I was 8, you know. I often lie awake at night thinking about what the next scenario would possible be; whether on a battlefield or at court. When Balon Greyjoy rebelled, what is it you think I did to my enemies? I destroyed them. I made an example of them. Ever since I found you two had a role in Lord Tywin's demise, I thought about having Ser Illyn remove your head from your shoulders. It would be appropriate, I suppose, him being the King's Justice and all, but no, no, no. That would be too fast. I thought about having you tortured with nothing but the shadows to listen to your screams, but I'm not that cruel. The thought of being someone I'm not… no it's just not right!"

Bernadette's eyes widened and tried to speak through her gag but muffled when she saw Daveth unveiling a hidden knife from his sleeve. Pressing the tip of the weapon against her leg towards her groin, the Young Stag pressed hard and quickly pulled back—severing Bernadette's femoral artery. The cloth she bit down on muffled her screaming, eyes shut tight and took Varys and Reina by surprise; Ilyn, however, stared blankly at the sight of Bernadette bleeding. His thirst for vengeance still not satisfied, Daveth turned on Qyburn and brought his knife across the side of his neck, severing the common carotid artery. Both their chains jerked and pulled on their restraints. Daveth, meanwhile, cleaned off the knife and handed it over to Ser Ilyn Payne.

"A cut that deep across the carotid and femoral arteries are very serious," he explained. "You don't need to be a maester to figure out that an adult heart pumps blood at several liters per minute. Tell me, Reina. You've seen men in Flea Bottom have wounds from accidents like these before. How often does it take for them to bleed out?"

"Difficult to say," she mused. "I'd say in their current condition they'll lose consciousness in about 30 seconds."

"But death is certain?"

Reina nodded. "Oh yes, Your Grace.  _Quite_  certain. They'll be dead in about three minutes."

Daveth nodded before looking down at Qyburn and Bernadette. "Let this be a lesson to you both. You two will die here, in this cell. Once that is done your heads will be mounted on the Traitors' Walk to be used as a warning to any who'd dare go after me or my family like that again. Your bodies will rot, collapse to bone and dust. But until then you'll spend your final moments contemplating the choices you've made. Know that the Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts," He turned to Ser Ilyn. "Be sure to have this mess cleaned up by tomorrow morning, Ser Ilyn. Have your men prepare the wagons."

While both Bernadette and Qyburn's yanking on the chains slowly grew less frequent and the sounds of muffled voices were getting quieter, Varys and Reina uncomfortably followed Daveth from the dark cells. And through it all, as Daveth walks away from them both forever, his face grew the faintest possible smile.

_'Choose to mess with my family or go anywhere near those I care about, then I'll make sure you wish you were never born.'_

* * *

**Chapter End**

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quite a dark ending. An example from season 7, Daveth lets out his anger on those who wronged him again. Varys and Reina worry that the worst part of Cersei Lannister lives on through her firstborn son. Poetic revenge or is this another example of the Oathkeeper's darker side? But what of the people who noticed his disappearance earlier: Queen Sansa Stark, Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Barristan Selmy? Think they could pull him out the darkness again like they did before? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> Also, be sure to stay tuned for the next chapter because it'll include some major hints if not a suspenseful cliffhanger involving Sansa Stark and Talisa. Care to take a guess (not that you really need to)?


	77. Creation of Life (Part 1)

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Accompanied by 20 men under Ser Rodrik Cassel, Lord Robb Stark and Theon Greyjoy rode through the courtyard on their horses. Hooves galloping through the mud, they recently came back from searching through most of the North—the most recent stop was from The New Gift, the furthest part of the North they've ever ventured before they were forced to withdraw from the region due to a massive wildling presence there. Dismounting from their steeds, Robb was emotionally exhausted at the continuous search for Bran and Rickon.

"You said the boys mentioned something about going  _beyond_  the Wall itself despite the dangers?" Ser Rodrik implored. "With a large wildling army amassing on the other side, it'll be too difficult to send a scouting party."

Theon, the new Lord of the Iron Islands sentenced to live in exile on the mainland, briefly lowered his head. "I know things may seem to be bleak, but you Starks are hard to kill."

"We've dispatched scouting parties to Greywater Watch up to Karhold and still we've seen no sign of either Bran or Rickon," said Lord Harald Karstark. "It's possible they could have chosen to go into hiding elsewhere now that winter's come. There's no way they'd take such a suicidal risk."

"That's not what that Reed lad and his sister told me, Lord Karstark."

"Either way, it's too dangerous to go beyond the Wall. Not so long as Mance Rayder and his wildling barbarians still retain a strong presence there."

Robb shook his head, feeling emotionally drained and exhausted. It was his duty as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North to care for his people, but also more importantly to his family. "I know in my gut that Bran and Rickon are still alive. They're still out there somewhere," he remained adamant. "And we need to bring them home."

As the leading scouting party returned, Robb saw Maester Luwin slowly walking up to him with a rolled up piece of paper in his blue robes.

"Pardon me, my lord. But a raven just flew in from Last Hearth," the old maester informed him.

_'House Umber…'_  thought Theon.

Robb looked serious. "What did Lord Umber say?"

Luwin briefly flashed a small smile before frowning again. "The Greatjon says he's found young Lord Rickon and Osha. They arrived at his castle seeking shelter from the cold and are said to be waiting for you there."

Overhearing the conversation, Lady Catelyn and Arya felt their knees beginning to give way underneath them. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, a small ray of hope had shined above them. Robb felt a sense of relief wash over him as well.

"Rickon's all right…?" Arya asked, stepping out of the hall.

Luwin nodded. "He is, my lady."

Catelyn breathed a sigh relief, but still yearned for more answers.

"And what's the bad news?" asked Theon.

Luwin shook his head. "I'm afraid that the bad news is… is that young Lord Bran, his direwolf Summer, Hodor, and the Reed children Jojeen and Meera have already gone past the Wall."

The members of the Stark household were left in aghast at the startling revelation that the fourth child and second son of Lord Eddard Stark. Catelyn was beside herself with grief; the thought of her child in danger again in a frozen uninhabitable wasteland was more than Catelyn would bear as she nearly collapsed.

"Oh, Bran…!" Catelyn's voice broke.

"Mother!" Arya and Robb moved to comfort their mother.

Theon felt a bit guilty at letting both Bran and Rickon go, but he knew he had done it for their safety. He had just hoped that they would return to Winterfell once the danger of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion had subsided, but alas it wasn't meant to be after all.

_"In three days' time, you will depart with Lady Stark for White Harbor and assist Robb Stark in finding Bran and Rickon and see them returned safely to Winterfell. He'll be expecting you. Do not squander this nor mistake my generosity for weakness. Understood?"_  Daveth's voice rung through his head.

One chance; just only one chance at redemption was given to him. And Theon had no intention of wasting it. "I'll go to Last Hearth," he announced. "I'll go get Rickon and bring him back. I promise."

Robb, Arya and Catelyn looked at Theon boldly announcing his intentions. Robb nodded his head in understanding, but it was long before Harald Karstark—still mounted on his horse—nudged him slightly.

"You?" he scoffed. "Last promise you made was one that caused your father to attack the North. And we remember what happened all too well.  _Never_  again. I will go instead."

Theon flinched. "I'm not a Stark, Lord Karstark, I know that. But Ned Stark raised me to be an honorable man. I want to help."

"And it's not you're duty because the North is not your home, Greyjoy."

Robb felt his lips curl. "That's enough, Lord Karstark!"

Harald defended himself. "With all due respect, Lord Stark, the blood of the First Men flows through my veins just as much as it does yours. Ironborn blood is of salt and iron. We are kin, you and I. Stark and Karstark. The Greyjoys are  _not_  one of us. Have you forgotten that my father and both my brothers died for you?"

"You leave Theon alone!" Arya yelled.

"No one here has forgotten," the Young Wolf countered, "but you will not use that sort of tone here, especially not with me. Both of you will go and get Rickon and bring him back here in Winterfell. Ser Rodrik will be accompanying you."

There was still simmering tension between the Northmen and Theon Greyjoy, one that has a rather difficult time dissipating given of his relations with Balon Greyjoy and the ironborn who raided their shores. Lord Harald sneered, but said nothing as he clicked his teeth and nudged his horse and rode out with 10 of his household guards en route to Last Hearth. Following Ser Rodrik, Theon mounted his horse again and joined them in the search. As soon as they were out of sight, Robb massaged his temples as Arya helped their mother Catelyn to her chambers to lie down.

"It never ends… evidently," he groaned.

Maester Luwin appeared sympathetic. "Theon's been having a hard time since the end of the war. He's lucky to have someone like you at his side, my lord."

"My father fostered Theon himself. I now understand that he intended to make him a different man than Lord Balon, someone who would bring honor and duty to his house even if the Iron Islands are gone. Bound in blood if not  _by_  blood, we are brothers."

"An admirable trait, my lord, even if the other Northmen don't see it that way."

The Young Wolf was tired. But before he could begin his next move, a distant glass shattered followed by a sound that pierced the northern skies.

***SHATTER!***

"GEAAAAAAHHHH!" a woman screamed shrill and high.

While Maester Luwin was startled by the sudden noise of shattered glass, Robb jerked his head up. He recognized that sound coming from his foreign wife—Lady Talisa Stark, formerly of the noble Maegyr family of Volantis, one of the Free Cities in western Essos. Talisa had been pregnant with Robb's first child and was resting in the main bedchamber until she was ready to give birth. It had now occurred to the Young Wolf that the time had finally arrived, as one of Talisa's handmaidens rushed into the courtyard—her shoes and the lower part of her dress stained with dry mud.

She panted hard. "My lord! Maester! It's Lady Stark, she…!"

"What's wrong with her?!" Robb panicked.

"It's time! The baby's coming!"

The handmaiden rushed to the main bedchamber as Robb Stark dashed to see Talisa as fast as his legs could possibly carry him. Maester Luwin followed not too far behind, struggling to keep pace. As a maester, Luwin would once again be responsible for assisting in childbirth. The old man had delivered every single Stark child during Lord Eddard's rule, and he would deliver House Stark's newest member.

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Queen Sansa Stark paced the floor in the bedroom, one hand on her belly and the other placed over her heart. She hadn't seen Daveth or heard from him in quite some time since Lord Tywin Lannister's funeral. Nearing the final stages of her pregnancy, Sansa tried really hard not to worry—believing Daveth needed some time to calm down, but with the sun going down in the distance she worried deeply. With the baby expected to come soon, her emotions.

"Gods have mercy, where is he?" Sansa wondered. "I hope he's okay…"

"Calm down, Your Grace," Shae reassured her. "You can't stress yourself out like this. The King will be just fine; he'll come back soon I'm sure of it."

"But what if something's wrong? What if he…?"

Tyrion sipped his goblet of wine. "I wouldn't worry about Daveth, now. My nephew might have one of his moments now and then, but once he's calmed down everything will be right as rain. He'll be back soon. Don't worry."

Prince Tommen Baratheon sat in a nearby chair, twiddling his fingers as he watched on as his sister-in-law paced the floor. He hadn't seen his eldest brother once the funeral services had ended either; often at times the Young Cub wondered what exactly was going on in his brother's head. But Tommen was confident that all was well… at least, he hoped it was.

Sansa exhaled shakenly, her heartburn slowly subsiding. "Oooh…" she groaned.

Brienne stepped forward a bit. "Are you all right, Your Grace?" she asked, somewhat concerned.

"Auuu!" she groaned again, squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head slightly. "No. No, Brienne, I'm really not. My husband's not here, I have no clue where Daveth is at right now, I'm about to have a baby…"

"Why don't I go look for him for you?" Tyrion stood. "I think I have an idea as to  _where_  he might be."

Sansa's face began to sweat.  _'Gods preserve me…'_ Letting out slow, steady breaths, she nodded. "Thank you, Lord Tyrion. Please do."

Tyrion took his time to depart from the bedroom, the Imp taking the opportune moment to search for his missing nephew. Tommen, meanwhile, sat up and poured a cup of fermented herbal tea and offered it to Sansa. He wanted to help in any possible way.

"Here, sister. Have some tea," he said politely.

Sansa panted slightly and accepted the cup. "Thank you, Tommen," she sighed, taking small sips. The tea tasted of sweet, herbal mint, somewhat relaxing her.

Shae massaged Sansa's shoulders through her silk dress, listening to her occasional sounds of moaning and groaning. Her breathing was growing increasingly sharper; remembering from her youth at a Lorathi whorehouse, Shae instinctively suspected that it was only a matter of time before the royal delivery would arrive. Even then her massages could only do so much for Sansa's back pains.

"Aargh!"

Upon hearing Sansa's strained yelp, Shae, Ariyana and Brienne reached for the Wolf Queen before she could crouch against the wall and clutching her belly; Ariyana and Brienne equally wrapped their arms around her arms and shoulders, helping her back to her feet. Sansa's eyes were squeezed shut and she was holding her breath.

"Sister?" Tommen asked nervously. "Are you… okay? Wh-what's wrong?"

"I… I think I'm all right," she panted. "By the Gods, I think the baby just kicked."

"Your Grace—" Ariyana spoke.

No response came.

" _Your Grace_!" Ariyana repeated more firmly, lowering her eyes and pointed to the floor.

Sansa slowly opened her eyes, following Ariyana's gaze and looked down at her feet. Shae, Brienne and Tommen all stared for a moment in disbelief and realized what Ariyana was looking at. Sansa felt a wet, semi-gooey substance sliding down the side of her thighs and staining her dress as it formed a small puddle around her feet. Sansa looked terrified; her lip began to quiver, her body shook, and her face expressed deep concern…

"I-I-I… S-someone… g-get the—" Sansa panicked.

Without warning, before anyone could respond, Sansa leaned forward sharply—both of her hands quickly clutching her swollen belly before letting out a loud, sharp scream.

"AAAAAAHHHH!"

Loud enough to rouse almost everyone in the Red Keep, Shae hurriedly brought Queen Sansa Stark to the bed and scrambled trying to get everything assembled into place.

"It's a contraction! She's going into labor!" she shouted.

Ariyana began barking orders. "Do what you can for her!" she turned to Brienne and Tommen. "Brienne, tell the midwives to fetch us towels and some hot water! Prince Tommen, go find your brother! I'll get Pycelle!"

Everyone was scrambling around like chickens with their heads cut off; as Sansa let out another scream, Brienne pulled aside some handmaidens and midwives to assist in the delivery as Ariyana went to find Grand Maester Pycelle. Tommen, meanwhile, ran out the room looking for Daveth. The Young Cub was running as fast as his legs could carry him, his breathing grew heavy as he searched nearly every room.

"Brother, where are you?" panted Tommen.

* * *

**Outside in the courtyard…**

* * *

Daveth laid both his hands across the balcony; not to take in the sights of the capital city below while the sunset in the distance, but rather to find a quiet spot to empty his thoughts and reflect on the past. The clouds above were gradually becoming thinner; the skies emitted the rays of a sun departing in the distance with a golden and crimson radiance, glorious hues to behold. Gold changed into crimson, crimson deepened to purple as if the glory of the heavens had passed away temporarily before rising once more come morning. The Young Stag's eyes examined the reflection of the sunset, watching the waters of Blackwater Bay crash against the rocky shores.

He felt uncleaned; the faces of those he'd known long since passed had come and gone. His childhood friends at Lannisport, the Hand of the King Lord Jon Arryn, his father King Robert, his father-in-law Lord Eddard Stark…

_"Hey, Daveth! Look! I'm Aemon the Dragonknight!"_

_"I'm Ser Arthur Dayne!"_

_"Come now, it's alright. Even now I can see the pain and the anger towards the burden you've been forced to carry every day. I know you don't wish to give such emotions voice, but I assure you, only the Gods know your heart."_

_"A wise King knows what he knows and what he doesn't. You're young, and already you've shown such promises. Not bad for a child at your age. Now, a wise young King listens to his councilors and heeds their advice until he comes of age. And the wisest Kings continue to listen to them not long afterwards."_

_"When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."_

_"Take good care of my daughter Sansa for me. She has a kind, gentle heart and she'll need you now more than ever."_

And those who currently stand with him.

_"Big brother, come play with me!"_

_"With a hooked blade, my master sliced me root and stem. Carved me up as an offering. He burned my parts on a brazier; the flames turned blue and I heard a voice answer his call. I still dream of that night. I don't know what it was but the sorcerer called and a voice answered. And ever since that day, I have hated magic and all who practice it."_

_"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women."_

_"Great or small, we must do our duty."_

_"I love you, Daveth."_

Daveth shook his head, his eyes were heavy. Just a week ago he had abruptly left his grandfather Lord Tywin Lannister's funeral and took his time to personally kill Qyburn and Bernadette for their role in his grandfather's assassination without giving them a chance to defend themselves, yet chose not to oversee the hanging of their headless corpses at the city gates nor did he take a moment to stare at the Traitors' Walk. Emotionally worn out, the Young Stag shook his head again.

"Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of Your Name, what in Seven hells have you done…?" he quietly told himself.

"Somehow I knew I'd find you here," someone called out to him.

Daveth turned around and saw Barristan Selmy walking down the stone steps; the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard looked just as tired—considering the old man had been searching nearly every corner in King's Landing for him.

"Did you worry?" he asked.

Barristan placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's not just me who's been worrying about you, my boy. Queen Sansa had no idea where you went. We were concerned."

Daveth lowered his eyes away, somewhat in shame. "It wasn't meant to be intentional. I… just needed to be alone for a while."

"You still should have told us where you were going."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"There's something else, isn't there? Are you feeling better about what happened to her?"

_'He means mother,'_ he realized. Daveth sighed. "Yes… a little better. Time heals all wounds, so the minstrels say. Scars remain, but they're just colors in the tapestry that we call life. I wish things had happened differently between me and mother, Ser Barristan."

"Cersei was special to you once, wasn't she?"

"Mhmm. Feels like a lifetime ago. She was… nurturing; warm, kind. At least in private anyway. There was so much mother knew and was willing to share with me. All I ever wanted back then was to make her proud."

"As would any child wanting their parents' approval. I'm sure that despite what happened, I believe that deep down she truly did love you in her own way."

"That's what hurts the most, Barristan. She loved me, yes; only when it became apparent she merely intended to use me for her own ends. And when she couldn't, she didn't trust me anymore. I knew she was ruthless, but I never imagined she'd go that far. It hurts to realize that I never really knew my own mother at all. Maybe I did but chose not to admit it."

"That's not healthy for you to think about, Your Grace," Barristan added. "Sometimes people just surprise you when you least expect it. It's something Rhaegar told me once."

Daveth looked at his mentor. "You never spoke about him much, Barristan."

"Your father always held a grudge. A deeply violent one. It only took getting mortally wounded by that boar did he really learn to let go. And it wasn't too late for you after what the Greyjoys did to you."

"I know. I understand that now. Took a while, perhaps, but I understand."

A brief moment of silence fell between them as the sun finally went down and the stars began to appear slowly.

"What was he like?" Daveth asked.

Barristan looked at him. "Who?"

"Rhaegar Targaryen."

The old Kingsguard looked puzzled, visibly caught off-guard by the sudden request from the Young Stag himself. There had been long memories buried beneath the surface.

"He was… everything a kingdom could hope for in a ruler. Prince Rhaegar was strong, but gentle, wise and cautious… and a good friend. No matter the wounds King Aerys dug into the realm, we had faith that his son would sew it back together again when he ascended the throne."

Daveth hummed. "Sounds like quite a man. Quite opposed to what father kept telling me about him."

Barristan shook his head. "I don't believe Rhaegar would've run off with Lyanna Stark the way he did. He wouldn't do something unless he had his reasons."

"Whatever the reason, it still didn't stop the chaos that soon came after."

"That it didn't, Your Grace. Sometimes I wondered if I had been quicker with my lance or chosen a faster horse during Lord Whent's tourney at Harrenhal, then perhaps things would've ended differently."

"If it did, then we never would have met," Daveth pointed out. "If things had indeed gone differently, I wouldn't have learnt everything I needed to know from Barristan the Bold."

Barristan chuckled. "Ha! My one lapse, I suppose."

Daveth smiled and felt the mood lighten. His thoughts quickly dissipated as the two watched the skies above slowly fade from crimson-orange to shades of blue and purple. Such silence was interrupted when sounds of quick movement reached their ears. Turning around, Daveth and Barristan saw Tommen running down the steps, nearly falling down the marble stone pavement before finally approaching them. He looked out of breath, his golden coat was nearly unbuttoned and his blonde hair stuck to his face.

"*huff!* *huff!* Brother! I… *huff!* *huff!*" Tommen panted heavily.

Daveth rolled his eyes and looked at his youngest brother. "Tommen, how many times must I tell you not to run down the steps like that?" he scolded.

Tommen shook his head. "I know, *huff!* brother, but…! *huff!*"

"Slow down! Take a deep breath and  _slowly_  tell me what in Seven hells is going on?"

Obediently, Tommen inhaled through his nose and exhaled before continuing. "It's Sansa! She's…!"

"She's what?!" Daveth asked, now his raising his voice.

"She's having the baby! Now!"

The Young Stag blinked twice. "Wha… Now?!"

"Yes now! Come on! She's in the bedroom! Hurry!"

As Tommen began to run back to the Red Keep, Daveth and Barristan stopped what they were doing and immediately chased after. The Queen was in her final stages of her pregnancy and from what Prince Tommen told them, Sansa had just started giving birth. Daveth's mind raced, never minding the servants he nearly knocked over while sprinting back into the Red Keep. All he could think of was Sansa.

_'Hang on, Sansa! I'm coming!'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be broken into two parts as you've seen me do in previous chapters before, but today's the big day! It's finally happened! So buckle your seatbelts because it's gonna be one bumpy ride as the royals and the Starks are expecting their firstborn children! What are your thoughts on part one so far? Let me know.
> 
> Also, some simmering tension is going on in the North coming from the new Lord of Karhold, Harald Karstark. He still holds a grudge against the Greyjoys—especially Theon even if he had nothing to do what happened to them. What'll the other northern houses think? Let me know.


	78. Creation of Life (Part 2)

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Lady Talisa tightly gripped the bedsheets and nearest wolf pelts, shutting her eyes tightly every three minutes or so as more beads of sweat slid down her face and neck, strands of her hair stuck to her cheeks. A strike of pain hit her, and she cried out again. By the Gods it hurt so badly. Talisa had been in labor for several hours now. Her stomach felt like it was being ruptured as Maester Luwin prodded Talisa between her legs forcing liquid to rush out of her.

"That's good. You're doing well, my lady," Luwin reassured her, moistening a cloth and handing it over to one of the midwives to continuously press all over Talisa's body.

"Auuuu! Ooooh! Mnnnneeeghh!" Talisa's voice was hoarse and strained. She closed her eyes again and began to push down again.

One of the midwives, Agatha, addressed Talisa's forehead, neck, arms, breasts and stomach with cooling pressure that aided, however minimal, in the Volantene lady's relief during her laborious struggles. She wrung it out before exchanging cloths with another.

Robb Stark hurriedly entered the room, nearly wearing himself out. "Talisa…" he murmured to her.

Talisa panted as she slowly, wearily opened her eyes. "Ooh, Robb!" she groaned through gritted teeth. "It hurts so much!"

The Young Wolf moved to his wife's bedside, clasping her hand in his. "I'm here, love. It'll be all right. I'll be right here by your side the whole time."

Panting and sharply drawing breath, Talisa pushed as hard as she could, squeezing Robb's hand really hard. Robb felt as though every bone in his hand would shatter, but he didn't care. His wife was in more pain than he was right now.

"Aargh!" Talisa exhaled sharply, dropping her head back onto the pillow to catch her breath.

Maester Luwin cleaned the sheets beneath Talisa's legs as well as his hands before diving back into the fray. "My lady," he said, trying to get her attention. "You're doing good, but I need you to hold your breath and we'll begin while you tuck in your chin."

The combination of Robb's encouragement and the flurry of action sliding from her midsection to her waist, Talisa felt her knees being brought up and her legs spread apart by three of the midwives in the room and somewhat pinned them against her chest.

"That's it. And push, push, push, push."

Talisa's contractions seemed to get more and more painful along with being increasingly more frequent. Exchanging brief glances with Robb, Talisa breathed in, closed her eyes tight again and pressed down, pushing as hard as she could.

"MMMMMNNAAAH!" Talisa bellowed.

"Breathe in and out," Robb tried to encourage his wife. "In and out—"

"SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP!" she snapped. "WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M TRYING TO DO RIGHT NOW?!"

Robb had never seen Talisa shout so much before. Not so much direct at  _him_. But it wasn't like he expected this would happen—it was always something the Young Wolf anticipated would happen once the hour of moment had arrived at Winterfell.

Breathlessly, Talisa heaved herself forward again for another ten seconds until she was allowed another brief moment of respite. Robb stroked Talisa's hair lightly with his fingers, removing strands of wet, sticky hair away from her face.

"It'll be all right, I promise," he reassured her again. "We're in this together."

Talisa nodded, before another contraction started and she cried out in pain, the pressure beginning to grow between her legs all of a sudden.

"Nnggaahh!" she screamed, shutting her eyes tight again. "Oohh! O-Oh my! Damn it! Ooh, Robb! Auuuu, I can feel something! I feel it!"

Robb again wiped away beads of sweat appearing on Talisa's forehead as she pushed and pushed. The Young Wolf quickly recomposed himself and looked at Maester Luwin.

"How far along is she?" he asked.

Luwin narrowed his eyes before widening them. "I can see the head!" he informed them. "Keep pushing, you're almost there!"

"AHHHHHHH!" Talisa screamed again, exerting as much pressure as she could in a half-sitting position. She squeezed Robb's hand and pushed; Talisa looked so tired and worn out, tears flown freely from her eyes. "Ngah! Owww! Gaaahh! Auuu!"

The pain was growing steadily. Talisa felt a pushing, a stretching sensation as she continued to push. Robb tracked Maester Luwin, watching as the old man pressed his fingers against his wife's maidenhead, swiveling about the taut opening the baby's head was going to be squeezed through nearly immediately.

"Shhh, shhh. It's okay. I'm here. Just breathe," Robb whispered.

"MNNNNHGGAAAA! IT'S COMING! IT'S COMING! AUUUUUAAAAHHH!"

The Young Wolf helped Talisa curl forward, a scream breaking from her already sore throat. She felt something hard and slimy began slipping out of her maidenhead, her legs feeling a sudden urge to clamp shut—but the army of midwives in the room prevented Talisa from closing her legs. With one final scream and a hard push, a tiny cry pierced the room.

"*Waaah! Waah! Waaah!*"

Robb's eyes widened and went stiff at the sound reaching his ears. Talisa winced from the sudden relief and tossed her head back onto the pillow, panting as she looked down at Maester Luwin. The old man smiled warmly as he brought his hands up, revealing a wailing newborn infant covered in a white, greasy, cheese-like substance covering its skin. Robb and Talisa looked at their firstborn child, both of them offering a relieved smile. Talisa felt tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Congratulations, you two," Maester Luwin warmly stated. "It's a boy. Red-cheeked and healthy."

"Oooh. Aho haha… a son," Talisa smiled warmly, her voice cracking with happiness and exhaustion. "Oh, look Robb, we have a son. Look at him."

Robb felt his lip beginning to tremble slightly as Luwin cut the toddler's umbilical cord and handed the new Stark over to the parents. Talisa reached out and took the crying newborn into her arms, cradling the babe as she looked down to appreciate what both she and Robb made together; the creation of a new life. Robb placed one hand around Talisa's shoulder and brought the other to touch the baby on the forehead.

"He's gorgeous," he whispered warmly.

The midwives curtsied. "Congratulations, Lord Stark."

"Congratulations," Luwin said. "So, what do you two plan on calling him?"

Before Robb could open his mouth to say anything, Talisa was the first to speak up.

"I know of a name," she said quietly.

Robb looked at his wife, raising an eyebrow with amusement. "Oh, do you now?" he replied humorously. "It seems to me that the father should at least have some say in the naming of his son, don't you think?"

Tired and worn out, Talisa responded, "Eddard. I want to name him Eddard."

Robb was caught off-guard; taken completely by surprise. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped slightly, the Young Wolf was at a loss for words at the thought of his firstborn son and heir being named after his late father Lord Eddard Stark. Talisa intended to honor the memory of the man she had never met, but Robb slowly gathered himself and nodded.

"Eddard," he repeated.

Talisa nodded. "Eddard."

Maester Luwin still smiled; lowering his head in acknowledgment. "Eddard of House Stark, son of Lord Robb and Lady Talisa Stark… Your father would be very proud, my lord, or flattered considering you chose to name your son after him."

Talisa chuckled, watching Robb shook his head with amusement.

"It's decided then. I'll prepare the ravens at once."

Bowing his head in acknowledgment, Maester Luwin left the room along with the midwives—leaving Robb and Talisa alone with their newborn son, watching the happy couple fawning over little Eddard. Luwin ascended the steps to the rookery and worked to prepare to send ravens flying across the North; from Greywater Watch to Last Hearth, each raven would arrive bearing the news of the birth of the Warden of the North's heir. Half-Volantene, half-Northmen… the boy was brought into this world with the lineage dating back to the First Men and Old Valyria. Many would eventually come bearing gifts, but others… Only a select few would dare bring scorn and disapproval.

"Tell me," Talisa asked, still feeling worn out. "Do you still intend on teaching our little Ned Stark how to ride horses?"

Robb kissed her forehead. "I do, love. I do."

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

King Daveth and Ser Barristan continued rushing through the halls of the Red Keep upon hearing word of Queen Sansa's delivery. The Young Stag had been absent for so long it almost made him forget that this moment was bound to arrive at any moment—and he hated himself for doing that. Following Tommen up the stairs, the trio ran by Tyrion Lannister.

"Ah, nephew! There you are. We've been looking everywhere for—Umph!" the Imp tried to get his attention, but was accidently knocked aside. Getting back up, Tyrion dusted himself off as Daveth continued into the next room. "Ah, I suppose I should've been expecting that…" he shook his head and followed close behind him.

"It's just right up here," Tommen mentioned and stopped moving.

Daveth and Barristan were near the room just as the sound of Sansa's contraction came into play again, the noise was as loud as it was long.

"GAAAAAAAHHH!" Sansa screamed.

The shriek was so loud it was almost deafening; the sound nearly made Daveth cover his ears, but he remained still. This was just as big day for him as it was to everyone else in King's Landing. Daveth was about to be a father soon, and he promised himself that he would not be the kind of man to his children like his own father King Robert was to him. The Young Stag steeled himself, and turned to Barristan and Tommen.

"The two of you stand guard. I'll call for you when we're done—"

"Auuuu! Owwww! Uuhhh!"

Daveth winced; the sound was almost blood-curdling. A chill went up and down his spine, making him shudder.

 _'Seven hells, what are you still doing out here? Get in there!'_  he berated himself.

Moving his feet in motion, Daveth pushed the door open and stepped inside the room. Sansa was already throwing her head back as she let out another wail, gripping the bedsheets while Grand Maester Pycelle was already at work between her spread legs. Shae dabbed a piece of cloth on Sansa's forehead and neck, wiping off beads of sweat; the pain was horrible. Sansa kept her eyes shut tight and felt pressure as the baby continually moved down with each push. She'd been gradually getting more tired with each push.

"Sansa!" Daveth moved to her bedside.

Sansa opened one eye before shutting it again as she was hit with another contraction. "Wh… where have you been?!" she gritted her teeth through the pain.

"It doesn't matter. I'm here now," he replied, taking one of her hands into his own.

Pycelle briefly lifted his head before lowering it back down. "Eh, a-another push now i-if you would please, Your Grace," he said.

The picture of such a sour old man poking his wrinkled fingers up Sansa's little pink cunt was enough to infuriate Daveth, but Shae was insistent on letting the Grand Maester do his job to help deliver the royal children. Under normal circumstances the Young Stag wouldn't have let Pycelle anywhere near the Wolf Queen, only relenting when the contractions kept running into each other.

"Push, Your Grace."

Sansa bit her lip to hold in a scream, whining as she bore down and pushed again, her body aching terribly. She squeezed Daveth's hand. Feeling the baby moving down was one of the most painful experiences of her life and she couldn't help but whimper again as Sansa threw her head back to catch her breath and started to cry.

"Aahhh uggghhhh! I-it hurts! It hurts!" she sobbed.

 _"Wait until you've birthed a child._ [...]  _The idea_   _of bringing little Princes and Princesses into the world, it is the greatest honor for a Queen,"_  Cersei's voice rung through her head. _"You cannot imagine the pain. I screamed so loudly I was sure Robert would hear me in the kingswood."_

Panting and feeling beads of sweat trickling down her face, Sansa now finally understood what her mother-in-law Cersei Lannister was talking about in regards to undergoing her first childbirth two years ago. Sure it was technically considered an honor for a Queen and had already mentally prepared herself for this moment, but Sansa never could've imagined that she'd endure such excruciating pain of this scale. In her mind, it felt like getting internally stabbed repeatedly over and over again.

"I know it does, Your Grace, but you can do this. We're here to help you see this through," said Shae reassuringly.

As Tyrion quietly made his way into the same room, Daveth nodded at his wife. "You can do this, Sansa. I know you can. I believe in you."

_"Daveth will show you an even greater devotion than Robert did with me. You could thank him for striving to be a different kind of man than his father; no doubt he's already told you the stories. Robert shamed and humiliated me, but Daveth will do no such thing to you."_

Taking deep and steady yet sharp breaths, her chest and abdomen rose and falling rapidly, Sansa looked at her husband—she hissed through her teeth, moaned in pain and felt increasing pressure from her waist down, yet it couldn't prevent Sansa from feeling a sense of love and comfort emanating from her husband. Despite every obstacle they endured, Daveth was standing beside her throughout her pregnancy—holding her hand and whispering words into her ear, telling her how he loves her and held her close to him. Even now with tears welling up in her eyes before tumbling down her cheeks, Sansa felt a sense of safety and comfort.

Applying wet cloths, Pycelle spread her vaginal lips a bit further apart as the Grand Maester noticed the Wolf Queen's cervix gradually opening on its own. "Ah! I-I can see the head now, Your Grace. Won't be long now; now, ah, p-please push for me just a little bit more."

"You can do this," Daveth encourages her, massaging her back. "Breathe in, breathe out."

"Oooh I hate you so much right now…" Sansa said through clenched teeth and tightly closed eyes before pressing down again, exerting as much push as she could. "AAAAAGGGHHH! UUUUUHHHHHH! OWWWW! NNNEEGGHHH! AAH-AAH!"

Down below, Pycelle withdrew his fingers and gently placed his hands around the neck, the tiny shoulders, the little body… gently pulling on the baby with every pressure Sansa applied to her body.

"V-Very good, Your Grace! Keep pushing!"

"I AM PUSHING! WHAT DO YOU THINK I'M DOING?!" Sansa cried, feeling as though she were about to pass out, her first baby was so close to coming she could feel her cervix stretching as the child moving slightly downwards, pain gripped her as the pressure became worse.

"It's all right now. You're almost there," Daveth exclaimed as he helped maneuver his wife into a half-sitting position.

"OOOHHHHH! AAAGGGHHH!"

Sansa looked tired and worn out; she gripped Daveth's hand and squeezed. No matter what, she intended to go through with this. She was not going to give up despite the pain. In whatever she did, Sansa reminded herself that she is a Stark, she was going to finish what she had set out to do. And this time, it was no difference.

"UUURRRRAAAGGHHHHH!"

With one final scream and one great big push, the sound in the room was replaced from exclamations and shouts of encouragement to a loud, piercing cry.

"*WAAH! WAAH! WAAH!*"

Slumping back a bit, exhausted and worn out, Queen Sansa Stark panted as she wearily looked down as Grand Maester Pycelle lifted a small, crying newborn in his arms.

"Congratulations, Your Grace. Well done, I must say! It's a boy."

Sansa smiled weakly. "C-can I… can I see him?" she asked.

Pycelle cut the umbilical cord, cleaned off the wailing infant as Shae hurriedly took the newborn from the old man's arms. The Lorathi prostitute-turned-handmaiden smiled warmly as she lowered the baby enough for Sansa to gently brush her hand against her child's warm rosy cheek.

"Hello, little one," the Wolf Queen cooed. "Hi. I'm your mama."

Daveth took in the sight before him. Sansa Stark panted heavily and laid her head down on the pillows, sweat glistening on her face, smiled as she kept her weary teary eyes glued on her son as Shae began wrapping the baby in a warm blanket. It would appear that maternal instincts were coming naturally to her. However…

"AAOOW! AAAH!" Sansa's eyes shot wide open, stood straight back up and began screaming again.

The Young Stag was taken aback by this sudden return of pain and agony. What was going on here? Why was Sansa still in pain?

"W-wait a moment now! H-hold on a moment!" Pycelle quickly interjected, spreading Sansa's legs apart again. "I-I don't think w-we're quite done yet, Your Grace!"

Both Daveth and Sansa turned their heads to the Grand Maester. "Gods preserve us! Are we having twins?!" they exclaimed simultaneously.

Tyrion slightly cringed at the witnessing childbirth up-close and personal. "It would certainly seem that way," he mused.

Instinctively, Sansa felt her muscles tightening and pressed down again. "AAAWOOO! NGAAAH!" she screeched.

The sounds she was making deeply upset the firstborn baby and it began to cry again. Shae did her best to cover the child's ears; even with so, Sansa resumed her continuous bout of wailing. Daveth held Sansa close as she began sobbing into his chest.

"Please, Daveth, please! I don't want to do this anymore," she cried. "Make it stop! By the Old Gods and the New, please make it stop!"

The Young Stag felt utterly helpless. He didn't want to see Sansa in this much pain, but there was literally nothing he could do to make it all go away. The only thing that could make this end was for Sansa to push this second child out of her womb as quickly as possible. Resigning herself to the scenario, the Wolf Queen resumed pushing through panting breaths.

"DAVETH BARATHEON, YOU ARE NOT SHARING OUR BED TONIGHT!"

Daveth didn't say anything.

"DO YOU HEAR ME?!"

"Yeah, yeah," he simply answered and kept rubbing her back. He knew that deep down Sansa didn't mean what she said.

"Oooohhh! NEVER— Auuuuu!— AGAIN."

Pycelle interrupted her rank. "Your Grace, I-I think it would be wise to-to push again."

"Oh, really?! I never would have guessed!" Sansa snapped back. The back of her legs were held up again and she pressed down again. "GAAAAHHHH!"

"You're a-almost there, Your Grace. The head is almost out!"

Shae dabbed Sansa's face again with a wet cloth; Tyrion, curious, couldn't help but try to sneak a peek—unfortunately for him, the Wolf Queen saw that.

"DON'T. YOU. EVEN. THINK ABOUT IT, TYRION LANNISTER!" she hissed with staggered breaths.

Shae turned and saw that, frowning deeply and smacked Tyrion upside the head. The Imp flinched at the hit, playfully shrugging his shoulders in innocence.

"One or two more pushes," Pycelle contended.

Sansa collected herself. She was very tired and took a moment to gather her strength. "UUURRRR!"

Daveth kissed Sansa's forehead, still massaging her back. "You're almost there, love. You can do this. Keep pushing."

Exhausted and out of breath, Sansa felt her hair sticking to her face again due to so much sweat. She was drained. Her throat was hoarse and incredibly sore from all the screaming it felt as if she damaged her vocal cords. Yet the Wolf Queen knew it wouldn't be much longer now and she wanted to hold both her babies in her arms.

"Oh my— The head's out," proclaimed Pycelle. "Just one more push, Your Grace."

Supported by Daveth, Sansa got back into her half-sitting position and beared down with all her might. All Sansa thought about was her babies. Her exhaustion gone, her fear vanished… she wanted to see her children. She needed to hold them.

"MMMMNNNNAAAHHH!"

With every ounce of energy she summoned, Sansa gave one final push and flopped back down onto the pillow to rest her head. She didn't feel a thing but she could hear another cry pierce the room.

"*WAAH! WAAH! WAAH!*"

Daveth turned to look at Pycelle, as did Sansa who exhaustedly lifted her head up to have a look. She panted heavily, tears had stained her cheeks and couldn't stop staring.

"Well done, Your Grace," the Grand Maester congratulated, holding up the second child for all to see. The second newborn baby was pink and was crying just as loudly as the elder twin. "It's a girl."

As Pycelle again cut the umbilical cord and Shae again wrapped the infant in a warm blanket. Daveth stared at the tiny little thing; Sansa, with tears running down her cheeks freely, cried. Shae took both infants wailing in protest—their eyes closed, mouths wide open—and laid them both on Sansa's chest, cleaning the younger twin so the new royal parents could see them.

"Oooh my, they're so adorable…  _Our_  children, Daveth," she choked a sob, staring at each of her twins in her arms with eyes full of tears; her son and daughter. For the first time since her wedding, Sansa felt her heart swell with love and joy. She was truly happy. She now had entered into a new chapter in her life: motherhood.

Ariyana and Brienne smiled, as did Shae, Tyrion, Tommen and Barristan—the three of whom had entered the room. Each of them clapped their hands in applause, praising the birth of the new royal children.

"Congratulations, Your Grace," Brienne spoke.

Ariyana nodded. "Excellent work."

"Congratulations, brother," Tommen smiled kindly. "You too, Sansa."

"Congratulations, my King and Queen," Barristan patted Daveth on the back.

Tyrion couldn't help but resist grinning. "Indeed. I do believe congratulations are in order on this historic day, nephew. Well done."

Daveth stared at his children in Sansa's arms. He was at a complete loss for words. The Young Stag reflected back on his early childhood and his earlier memories flooded with his upbringing with his father King Robert and his mother Queen Cersei; for a long time, he pushed himself to strive forward, declaring to himself that he would not be the kind of father to his children like Robert was to him.

 _'I am many things, father. Do you hear me? I will not be the kind of father to my children like you were to me,'_  he thought.

"So… what are you going to call them?" asked Tommen.

"Yes, Your Graces," Tyrion agreed. "What  _are_  you going to call them? I have a list of names if you'd like to look."

Sansa looked at Daveth. They both planned this long, yet now they must decide on a name for the newborn Prince and Princess. Daveth looked at both his children; the babies were small with a full head of black hair… and shades of blue in their eyes as soon as they were able to open them. He looked as Sansa hummed a sweet melody as she opened her white gown and nestled her twin babies in her bosom, nursing them at her own breasts despite suggestions from the midwives to delegate the task to a wet nurse. Sansa had quickly adjusted into her new role as a mother quite well.

The Young Stag looked at his son. "Lyonel," he broke the silence.

Sansa listened closely, respecting her husband's decision to name their son.

"Ah, a name derived from the Stormlands honoring the Laughing Storm himself, no less," Tyrion noticed. "Very well, Your Grace, but what about the girl?"

Sansa looked at her newborn daughter, still suckling from her right breast. "Cassana," she decided.

The gathered guests pondered the given names, each giving their own respected opinions before nodding their heads in acknowledgment before leaving the room to allow the two a moment of privacy. Grand Maester Pycelle was the last to leave; announcing his intention to have the ravens in the rookery spread the word across Westeros of the news. Once for sure they were finally alone, Daveth chose to lay beside his wife Sansa on the bed, kissing her cheek as she choked another sob with a smile spreading across her face.

"You did good, Sansa," he told her.

Sansa sniffled and nodded tiredly, turning her head to face Daveth and kissed him. "He looks like you," she said, indicating their son.

Daveth examined him. "And  _she_  looks like you," he replied, indicating their daughter. "See there? Look. She's got your face. She'll be a great beauty just like her mother."

"Will she now?" she said softly. "Well, our son has your nose. And he'll be just as strong and handsome like his father."

Daveth blushed slightly, briefly scratching the back of his head. "I'll… I'll always be here for them. Our children will have the best of both worlds. I swear it. I'll protect all three of you. You have my word."

Sansa smiled sleepily. "I know you will, love," she said to him as the midnight skies appeared outside the castle walls.

With the moon shining bright, rays of the moon shined into the bedchamber. As Sansa drifted off to sleep, Daveth quietly took Lyonel and Cassana to their makeshift cribs beside their own bed. He'd stand guard if he'd have to, but that was an assignment delegated to the Kingsguards Brienne of Tarth and Ariyana Dayne. They had personally volunteered. And it wasn't long before Daveth felt the need for sleep too. Disrobing into a white shirt, the Young Stag climbed into bed beside his sleeping wife.

"I love you, Sansa Stark," he whispered sleepily before drifting off.

"Mmm. I love you too, Daveth Baratheon," she replied before returning to sleep.

 _'And… thank you… for everything,'_  he thought to himself.

The two wanted this moment to last, but that could wait another day. Come morning, both the King and Queen will be presenting their children to the court. All the lords and ladies from across Westeros would soon gather to King's Landing to see their new Prince and Princess. Again, such an occasion can wait another day. For now, the royal family needed a much deserved slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that completes part two. And there you have it! Each of the Stark and Baratheon children have successfully made their way into the world. What do you guys think? Were the names appropriate? What'll Catelyn and Arya Stark react upon hearing news from the capital city? What'll Barristan think, or Tommen or even Jaime in the meanwhile? I'll let you guys think about that. Quite an adventure the Oathkeeper has been going on; and now a new chapter will being in Robb's, Daveth's and Sansa's lives. Thoughts? Let me know.


	79. The Wildling and the Dragon

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

Donned in all black, Jon Snow stood as the south gate was steadily raised upwards. Trekking through the tramped snow beyond the Wall, Jon examined the corpses of dead wildlings scattered across the area – cut down with arrows, smashed with rocks. The bastard of the North examined one corpse in particular, Dongo the Doomed, a fallen giant with a scorpion bolt protruding through him as ravens had gathered to feed on his flesh.

Jon stopped moving, looking back over his left shoulder where the Night's Watch's scythe smashed bodies of the wildlings who tried to climb the Wall now lie in a pile of broken bones and twisted limbs. He looks forward to his right, where Mag Mar Tun Doh Weg's flaming bull mammoth stomped a swath through the wildling army's ranks in its panicked final moments, leaving piles of crushed wildlings.

Removing his sight from the battered frozen no-man's-land, Jon continues the longest walk of his life into the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall towards his destination: Mance Rayder's camp. A sprawling jumble of tents and cookfires and latrine pits were seen in the trees, children and goats wandered about freely, sheep bleating amongst the trees as wild horses were pegged up to dry. Jon knew there were multiple men, women and animals numbering in the tens of thousands; despite losing the entire southern assault force of 4,000 during the first wave, the wildling army still remained strong.

And Jon remembered not to sneak up on wildlings in the woods: men in front of him had been waiting for him, watching his movements cautiously with weapons in hand as more emerged from the trees behind him. Recognizing his was surrounded on all sides and by himself, Jon raised his hands above his head. They lost friends and family to the Night's Watch and wanted to tear Jon to pieces, but none were permitted to lay a hand on him so long as he remains under a banner of truce.

The King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder finally emerges from his tent, not surprised by Jon's presence again; word of his arrival evidently preceded him.

"You're wearing a black cloak again," he observed.

Jon nods. "They sent me to negotiate with you."

Mance opens the flap of his tent and motions Jon inside. Jon follows with six of the chieftains keeping a close eye on him. He knows they don't trust him, not after what happened. Mance sits on the nearest stool facing the tent entrance with Jon sitting opposite to him.

"This wasn't the first time my trusting nature got the better of me," Mance lamented. "You know, I really was hoping your loyalty to us was real, Jon Snow. Believe me, I really did."

"Qhorin Halfhand ordered me to join your army and bring back whatever information I could to Castle Black," Jon explained. "I was loyal… to him. And to my Night's Watch vows."

Mance raised an eyebrow. "All of them?"

Jon lowered his eyes.

"Ygritte wasn't enough to turn you? Were you enough to turn her?"

"She put three arrows in me when I escaped."

"Did you see her again at Castle Black?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"She… Ygritte's dead," Jon replied mournfully.

"Was it at your hands?" Mance pressed.

"No."

Jon reflected back during the Battle of Castle Black; how Olly shot an arrow that pierce Ygritte's heart. Olly was a young boy, but Jon didn't want to mention that at all. Mance somehow must've detected this and leaned forward.

"I suppose that's for the best then. She really did love you, that Ygritte, even if you did indeed wronged her the way you did," he remarked. "You really caught us off-guard for a moment, you know?"

Jon blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I half expected there'd be more than 100 crows up on that Wall, but instead there's more than 8,000 of you; gave us quite a fight. How did the Night's Watch increase their numbers so quickly?"

"I… wasn't expecting that either."

One of the wildling chieftains approached. "Liar! Once a crow, always a crow! You can't trust this one. Who's to know what other lies he's trying to feed you?"

Mance raised his hand up, silencing the disgruntled wildling. "Well?" he asked again.

Jon thought hard about this; then he faintly remembered a distinct letter arriving from the capital city to Acting Lord Commander Alliser Thorne's office weeks before the battle started.

"My sister… well, my  _half_ -sister, is married to King Daveth Baratheon—ruler of the Seven Kingdoms south of the Wall," Jon answered truthfully. "She must've persuaded him to send more men and supplies to the Night's Watch; probably enough to man the other castles long since abandoned until recently."

Mance listened to every word. Nodding his head, the King-Beyond-the-Wall determined that there was no trace of deception in Jon Snow. "Hmm. Clever girl, your sister.  _Very_  clever indeed. And a smart lad this Daveth Baratheon to heed his northern bride's counsel when no one else would."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall raises his cup, with Jon slowly joining him in drinking. He cannot hide the fact that fermented milk tastes like day-old expired cheese and begins wincing.

"That's not wine," Jon coughed.

Mance laughed. "No, Jon Snow.  _That_  is a proper northern drink. You did well. Fought hard, killed some of our strongest men. One of our giants went into your tunnel and never came out again. Mag the Mighty, we called him. He was their king, you know, the last of a proud bloodline that stretches back before the First Men. But do you know something?"

Jon shook his head no.

Mance Rayder's tune became serious. "I showed you everything I've got, a whole army at my disposal. 100,000 strong. And what did you do? You fired on us—not a lot, only 4,000 of us. But how long can you continue to hold out before your numbers dwindle again? Before you eventually run out of oil, arrows… men? A lot of my forces will die climbing the Wall, but most will make it over by the end of the day. So, here's me being honest with you, Jon Snow—which is more than you've ever done for me. My people have bled enough. I'm sure yours has too. I'm not here to conquer, that was never my intention to begin with. All I want is to hide behind your Wall, just like you. We need your tunnel. Now, we both know that winter is coming. If my people don't get south of the Wall before winter comes in full force, we'll all end up worse than dead."

Jon doesn't like the way this is going, but Mance is telling the truth and he knows it—which doesn't make Jon's job any easier.

"You wish to make a deal with me?" the King-Beyond-the-Wall continued. "Well, here's what I offer: you can go back and convince your black brothers to open the gates to us, and I swear on my honor that no one else dies. The Free Folk will never raid any nearby village nor will we kill anyone so long as they don't give us any trouble. Refuse, however, and we'll charge the Wall with everything we've got and kill every single crow of the Night's Watch."

Here and now, Jon's eyes, his breathing, the tensing of his arms and legs and fingers are warning him that Mance Rayder will actually go through with the promised threat of attacking the Wall again. Even with the drastic increase in numbers the Night's Watch experienced, the sworn brotherhood was still heavily outnumbered and probably might not survive such repeated assaults from a group of very determined, fierce wildlings. Regardless, Jon Snow was ready to kill and to die. But before either side could make a move, however, outside the tent everyone begins to hear horns and trumpets sounding in the distance.

***AHOOOOOOOOO!***

The wildling chieftains look to each other and to Mance. Mance stands and draws on Jon, bringing his blade tip within inches of Jon's face.

"Are you attacking us?!" he accused.

Jon shook his head. "No! That war horn doesn't belong to the Night's Watch!"

Mance shoved Jon aside. "If you're lying to me, you're a dead man."

The King-Beyond-the-Wall storms from the tent to investigate, followed by his chieftains. Two of them grab Jon Snow and drag him along. Outside, Jon finds utter chaos; people running every which way. Wildlings fleeing into the fog, some of them were tossing aside their weapons in panic.

"HOLD!" Mance rallied his troops. "To me! To me!"

Despite his calls, the downside of freedom is how easily it falls apart. Mance's generals form up around him, however, protecting their King-Beyond-the-Wall. Further in the eastern direction, the source of why people are running from a new threat. Heavy sounds of footfalls of armored horses and clangor of full plate came charging into view, breaking through the fog revealing a great, well-formed column of heavy cavalry charging up the middle of the wildling encampment like a spear of horseflesh and black steel. Some of the soldiers charging in on horseback were seen holding up small banners depicting a crowned black stag engulfed in a red burning heart; they've been cutting down the wildlings, setting fire to their tends and drove implacably forward.

Mance and Jon look to the left, where another cavalry column is coming at them in the same fashion. The same on the right. A pincer maneuver designed to do one thing: encircle Mance Rayder. A force of 28,000 heavily armored men surround battalions of widlings in skins and furs. Riding down the center column, Lord Stannis Baratheon of Dragonstone rode into view with Ser Davos Seaworth riding at his side and a personal guard of Baratheon knights.

The Free Folk, however, refused to budge an inch. A few spit in the snow, hefting their weapons, ready to die to secure their freedom. Stannis unsheathed his sword and signaled the attack.

"Stannis! Stannis! STANNIS!" his men chanted and attacked.

"Lord of Light defend us!"

"For Stannis!"

"For R'hllor, the one true God!"

_'The Stannis Baratheon? King Robert's brother?'_  thought Jon Snow, recognizing who the attacker was.  _'If that's so, then… then it's done. They'll break rank soon.'_

Some of the frightened wildlings were running, throwing down their weapons, Hornfoot men and cave dwellers and Thenns in bronze scales, they were running—scattering like leaves before a storm. Because they were only expecting attacks from the Wall, the Free Folk unknowingly left their eastern flank totally exposed, a tactical flaw Stannis easily exploited and attacked the camp in a perfect double envelopment like he did at Fair Isle as his nephew Daveth did at Moat Cailin and again at the Sunset Sea. Members of a dozen different wildling tribes who've been killing each other for centuries all prepared to fight and die for their King-Beyond-the-Wall.

Slash after slash, blow after blow, stampede after stampede… the wildlings fell one by one. With their armor, their horse and their numbers, Stannis Baratheon's men proved too much for Mance Rayder's forces. Suspecting duplicity, one of the chieftains presses a dagger to Jon Snow's throat.

"Treacherous crow!" he snarled.

Jon resisted. "I did not call them here! The Night's Watch takes no part in southern politics!" he protested.

Before he could cut Jon's throat, Mance Rayder raises a hand up.

"Stand down," he orders.

Every wildling looks at him, uncertain as to what they just heard. Realizing that his once massive army was caught completely off-guard and knowing that the Free Folk never faced mounted heavy cavalry before, Mance gives the order to spare his people still under siege from both the north and southern fronts.

"Stand down!" he repeats himself. "I said my people have bled enough, Jon Snow, and I meant it!"

As Stannis and his men approach, Mance Rayder angrily throws his sword at the ground near Stannis's feet. He looks to his men and they all throw down their weapons as well. The wildling chieftain holding Jon Snow lets him go. The Baratheon knights look to their liege lord; Stannis dismounts and approaches Mance. Davos dismounts behind him and follows.

"Round them up!" exclaimed a Baratheon cavalryman.

"So," Stannis eyed Mance up and down, "you're the infamous King-Beyond-the-Wall I've heard so much about?"

Mance offers a nod but nothing more.

"Do you know who I am?"

"Never had the pleasure."

Davos stepped forward. "This is Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone and uncle to His Grace King Daveth Baratheon, sovereign monarch of the Seven Kingdoms."

"How did you get to us so quickly?"

"Our knights landed at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea," the Onion Knight explained.

Jon looked curious. "Commander Cotter Pyke just let you through?" he asked.

"Ah, so that's who that is. Yes, he led Lord Stannis along the ranger's roads to take the wildling unaware."

Stannis hummed. "In the name of Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of Westeros and Shield of His People, it is customary to kneel when surrendering. Now kneel."

Mance shook his head. "We're not in the Seven Kingdoms. You're not dressed for this weather. And we do not kneel."

"I'll have thousands of your men in chains by nightfall," Stannis threatened. "They won't be placed on my ships, they won't be fed on my ships. I'm not here to slaughter beaten dogs. But the fate of your people depends on their King."

"It doesn't matter; the answer is still the same," Mance repeated, shaking his head again. "We do not kneel."

Stannis frowned. "So be it," he gestures to his subordinates. "Take these men away."

Two guards draw their swords again and step forward. As Stannis's men begin taking the prisoners, Davos notices Jon Snow and points him out to Stannis.

"My lord," he spoke up.

Stannis turns towards Jon and notices him.

"What's a man of the Night's Watch doing in a wildling camp?"

"I was sent to discuss terms with the King-Beyond-the-Wall," Jon explained.

Davos shook his head. "Come now, boy, Daveth is the one true King. You know that."

"I know he's the King," he responded. "My father died for him, and my sister is married to him." Jon turns to Stannis, meeting the elder Baratheon's gaze. "My name is Jon Snow, my lord. I'm Ned Stark's son."

For a moment, Jon has become more interesting to Stannis Baratheon than the King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder. Stannis looks more directly at Jon.

"Your father was an honorable man," he said.

Jon nodded. "He was, my lord."

Stannis turns and looks at Mance before returning to Jon. "Tell me. What do you think your father would have done with him?"

Jon looks to Mance, whom he had been negotiating with minutes ago while Mance stares defiantly at Stannis. The King-Beyond-the-Wall and the wildling chieftains all look to Jon; Stannis doesn't seem like the kind of man who asks a question if he's not interested in the answer. Jon looks at Mance before looking at Stannis.

"I was this man's prisoner once. He could've tortured me, he could've killed me… but instead he spared my life. I think my father would've taken him prisoner and listened to what he had to say."

A long pause sat between the men. Stannis looks from Jon to Mance, lowering his head for a moment as if he's weighing Jon's advice before giving a curt nod.

"It would seem our goals coincide with one another," he agreed. "Ser Davos, take him."

Davos leads Mance Rayder to Stannis's personal guard. As Stannis turns to walk away, Jon steps forward and stops him.

"My lord," Jon calls out.

Stannis looks over his shoulder. "What is it now?"

Jon looks at the pile of dead wildlings. "If my father had seen the things I've seen, what all of us at Castle Black have seen, he'd tell you to burn the dead before nightfall. All of them. Now."

* * *

**In Meereen…**

* * *

Residing within the audience hall of the Great Pyramid, Daenerys Targaryen remained a guest of the slave rebel leader-turned-Queen of Meereen Saqnizza Dhardu. Although she now commands not just three live dragons: Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal – each of whom are grown as large as a small horse, but still large enough to serve as destructive weapons of war – but also an army of 8,000 Unsullied eunuch soldiers. Under the guidance of Jon Connington, Daenerys had been pondering the actions of her father King Aerys II Targaryen and the revelation Connington told her nearly a year ago.

Ever since word arrived in Meereen that the Slavery Alliance not only reclaimed but re-stablished slavery in Astapor and Yunkai, the Dragon Queen decided to stay in Meereen to gather more knowledge and experience before pacifying the three cities of Slaver's Bay before resuming her quest to retake the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. But Daenerys looked tired; she hasn't slept much in the past few nights—not since Drogon, the largest and more aggressive of her three dragons, snapped at her with a hiss and flew off without warning.

Grey Worm and Missandei stand at ease on either side of her. Connington, meanwhile, tapped the table, getting her attention.

"A house with great wealth and fertile lands asks you for protection against another house with a strong navy that could one day oppose you," he lectured. "How do you know which choice is wise and which isn't? Do you have any experience of treasuries and granaries or shipyards and soldiers? A wise ruler knows what they know and what they don't know. You're young, child. A young ruler listens to their councilors and the wisest ones continue to listen to them long after they've entered their majority."

Missandei tilted her head. "You've experience in such things, Lord Connington?" she asked curiously.

"In my younger days, yes, though unfortunately most of us tend to gain wisdom in our old age. And by then it all comes a bit late. Happens to us all and there's no stopping it."

"Tell me, Lord Connington," Daenerys asks, "if there was one thing you could have changed, what would it be?"

Jon shook his head. "If I'm putting it blunt, Your Grace… I would have changed how I approached the Battle of the Bells during the Usurper's rebellion."

"I've not heard of the Battle of the Bells. What did it entail?"

"When I was Hand of the King under your father, child, he tasked me with pursuing the rebels at the Stoney Sept in the Riverlands and snuff out the rebellion. It was after we won at the Battle of Ashford. Instead of ending the war with one swift stroke, I spent too much time searching from house-to-house for Robert Baratheon. Being young, hot-headed and a bit ahead of myself as I was in my youth, I sought to engage the Usurper in single-combat but…"

"What happened?"

"The rebel host led by Starks, Arryns and Tullys arrived and surrounded the royal forces on all sides. Urban fighting made it hard to hold the army together, as I eventually learned the hard way. King Aerys blamed me for the defeat at the Battle of the Bells; he stripped me of my lands, titles and wealth and exiled me to Essos. Knowing what I know now, I would have burned Stoney Sept—which would've ended the war in House Targaryen's favor."

Daenerys frowned. "Despite the loss of innocent people's lives, Lord Connington? If that's the path we must take, then we're no different from my father."

Jon was surprised.

"You served my father, Lord Connngton," she continued. "It was you who told me who and what he really was. What he did… I know how the Mad King got his name. And I will not be like him. I will not be a Queen of the ashes. If I cannot learn what it means to rule  _properly_ , then we're no better than him. I will not let those I helped free slide back into chains like Astapor and Yunkai did. I'll not sail for Westeros yet, not until I'm certain I'm ready. So I will do what Queens do: rule. And I will learn from my failures and misgivings."

"Ah, you're more idealistic than you make yourself out to be child," he signed. "But there are times where certain situations demand a monarch to make such hard decisions. It's not easy and they go against our own desires, yes, but they are indeed necessary. There is no in-between."

Daenerys's frustration upon hearing this, but silently acknowledges the ugly fact that there are no easy choices in this situation. She's not happy about it, but the Dragon Queen doesn't know what else to do for the moment. A servant arrives with a sealed scroll.

"A message for you," she said in a thick Low Valyrian accent.

Jon and Daenerys acknowledge the guttural speech. Connington breaks the wax seal and reads the parchment. Daenerys observes Connington's posture and notices a deep scowl forming across his face.

"It would appear that you're intention on reclaiming the Iron Throne just got a bit more difficult, child," Connington said, his tone of voice was serious.

Daenerys was curious, yet slightly concerned and annoyed. "What do you mean?"

"It would appear that the Usurper's boy, Daveth Baratheon, has sired heirs of his own. As long as they live, your throne will never be secured."

Daenerys frowned, angry and disturbed by the notion. "I am not a murderer of children, Lord Connington."

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in frustration. "We already know that, child, but would rival claimants prove to be loyal subjects in the end? Think back to your earlier lessons of what happened when I told you how Tywin Lannister and his men sacked King's Landing to claim the Iron Throne for Robert Baratheon. Your own niece and nephew, Princess Rhaenys and Prince Aegon… both were your brother Rhaegar's children, yet they weren't shown mercy anyway and were butchered like animals. They would have done the same to you and Viserys if Ser Willem Darry hadn't smuggled you both to Braavos."

Grey Worm and Missandei looked to each other, obviously knowing there was some bit of tension brewing between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Connington—lessons about past failures and retaking the Iron Throne via right of conquest. They respected Daenerys for her mercy and dedication for delivering justice on those who've wronged those less fortunate than they are, but unfortunately Connington hadn't begun to see it that way. Each had their own respective opinions, but separated by generation ideologies. Daenerys traced her fingers over the map detailing Westeros and Essos.

"No need to remind me of that, Lord Connington. My brother Viserys already made sure I knew what had happened," Daenerys said firmly. "Whether how one takes the throne by right of conquest or right of inheritance, they're both just spokes on a wheel often invoking violence and bloodshed. This happens, then that happens, and on and on it spins, crushing those on the ground. It's a cycle that keeps on going with no end in sight."

"Your Grace—"

Daenerys stops looking at the map and is face-to-face with Connington. "I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, Lord Connington. And I will. But I will not murder innocent children to get there. And I will not stop the wheel, Lord Connington. I'm going to break the wheel."

Jon raised his hands in frustration and shook his head. Seven hells, the Dragon Queen can be so stubborn sometimes. Before any could speak further, another handmaiden arrived and whispered into Connington's ear.

Jon sighed. "I'll need to take a brief leave of absence for a while."

"Where will you be going?" Daenerys asks.

"There's an old contact of mine near the ruins of Old Valyria, says he has some information for me. Something we could use if we're to take ship to Westeros."

"Then be swift," the Dragon Queen motioned.

Jon nodded and left the audience hall, leaving Daenerys alone with Grey Worm and Missandei. The Dragon Queen looked again at the table in front of her, picking up the wooden war table piece depicting the dragon of House Targaryen—brushing her fingers across it as she gazes at the wooden war table piece depicting the stage of House Baratheon.

"And in the meantime…" she murmured quietly to herself, "I need to know more about this Daveth Baratheon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys. Happy New Year and welcome to the year 2019! To express my appreciation for you guys asking for more content, I figured I'd add a dual cameo chapter focusing on two familiar characters. A bit of a change in dialogue between Jon Snow and Mance Rayder before Stannis rode in, but what is your take on the conversation between Daenerys Targaryen and Jon Connington in Meereen? A bit of a slow rift developing over methods in her bid to take back the Seven Kingdoms for House Targaryen and opposing ideologies. Connington obviously wants the babies Lyonel and Cassana dead to secure the Iron Throne for Daenerys, but Daenerys herself has other ideas to take the throne without continuing bloodshed. Think she has something else in mind considering her last statement? Thoughts? Let me know.


	80. Gifts and a Secret Project

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Lords and ladies gathered from nearby regions to gather before the Iron Throne; many of them were eager to see the royal twins (now at two-weeks old) and arrived as soon as they received a raven from the Red Keep—each carrying gifts to present to the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms on this historic day. Daveth sat on the Iron Throne, his fingers tapping the pommel of one of the swords making up the throne itself. Beside him Sansa held Lyonel and Cassana in her arms, gently rocking them from side-to-side as they both slept soundly. Only when the royal court started growing a bit louder did they stir and fuss about. When the Kingsguard and Grand Maester Pycelle examined each gift and determined no hazardous substance was found, the proceedings began.

The High Septon held a large book in his hands, accompanied by a flock of septons and septas as they bowed their heads to the King and Queen. Clearing his throat, the High Septon recited a prayer.

"The Gods have shined their favor brightly, Your Graces," he exclaimed. "Let us pray on this holy day. We ask the Father to bestow these children with His mercy. We ask the Mother to bless them with Her love. We ask the Smith to grant them to strengthen their hands and their backs as we enter into a new age. We ask the Warrior to give them the courage in days of strife and turmoil. We ask the Maiden to protect their virtue and keep them safe from temptation. We ask the Crone to show them the path they must walk. And we ask the Stranger to not take them to the unknown before their time. As the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, I hereby bless Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana of House Baratheon in the light of the Seven."

"Seven blessings," the courtiers prayed.

Daveth and Sansa lowered their heads in acknowledgement; the twins, however, grew rather fussy about the increase in volume—each expressing their disapproval. Lyonel and Cassana curled their tiny hands and wrapped them around their mother's dress, mewling at the High Septon's blessings. Sansa gave an amusing light chuckle as did the High Septon before the Faith of the Seven delegation left to return to the Great Sept of Baelor.

One by one, the visiting dignitaries and courtiers presented their gifts to the royal children: Jalabhar Xho presented a toy bow with a quiver of padded arrows fletched with green and scarlet feathers and exotic birds native to the Summer Isles; from Lady Falyse Stokeworth a pair of wooden knights and porcelain dolls; from Olyvar Frey a wooden figure depicting the Twins; from Ser Kevan Lannister a magnificent wooden sword and lance similar to the ones he gave his sons Lancel, Martyn and Willem; silver spurs from Lord Damon Marbrand; a red silk tourney pavilion from Lord Mathis Rowan. Lord Paxter Redwyne presented a beautifully carved wooden model of a war galley, even going so far as announcing the Arbor had already begun construction of a real war galley of 200 oars being built even now.

"If it pleases you, Your Graces, she will be called  _The Winter's Voyage_ ," he said.

Sansa approved. "I'm sure the children will enjoy sailing the open water someday. Thank you for this gift, my lord. It was very thoughtful. Please convey our appreciation to House Redwyne and the Arbor."

Lord Paxter bowed. "You honor us, my Queen."

Lord Mace Tyrell came forward to present his gift, one Daveth wasn't sure of: a golden chalice three feet tall, with two ornate curved handles and seven faces glittered with gemstones. Each face bore the sigil of one of the Great Houses: a ruby lion, an emerald rose, an onyx stag, a silver trout, a blue jade falcon, an opal sun and a pearl direwolf.

"On behalf of House Tyrell and the people of the Reach, Your Graces, it is my honor to present the Prince and Princess with this chalice," Mace explained, setting down the cup at the foot of the Iron Throne. "We also extend to you our most heartfelt congratulations on the birth of your children."

Daveth wasn't sure what to make of it.  _'That's too big for them, ponderous oaf.'_  Even so, it's the thought that counts. "A splendid goblet, Lord Tyrell," he complimented.

_'That damned thing's as tall as I am,'_  Tyrion thought.

Sansa suspected both Daveth and Tyrion were thinking the same thing, yet pretended that she hadn't seen through the façade. Laughter rang through the throne room—apparently the lords and ladies thought the exact same thing as well. As Mace stood back, Tyrion's gift was brought by Podrick Payne after the Lord of Highgarden's cup. Tyrion Lannister—the new Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West—came before Daveth and Sansa to present it.

"Well," he cleared his throat, "I think it's about time my new grandnephew and grandniece are given something from me as well." Tyrion reached into the bundled cloth and unveiled two wooden stag figures (the symbol of Daveth's house), a harp and a large tome; the Imp placed the gifts before the Iron Throne. "A gift from House Lannister and the people of the Westerlands, if it pleases you, Your Graces, why not fascinate Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana's minds with knowledge before they learn to joust or sing songs?"

"I see," Daveth inquired. "Tell me, Lord Tyrion, what is the title of the book?"

" _The World of Ice and Fire_ by Maester Yandel; it even includes Archmaster Glydayn's lost master work  _Fire and Blood_  before the tragedy at Summerhall. From what I hear the other maesters worked day and night to rid it of inaccuracies and political bias before producing a perfect copy."

"I've heard of Archmaester Gyldayn; his books contain fascinating research." He turned to Sansa. "What do you think, my Queen?"

Sansa examined the book. "I believe it could be productive in our children's education, my King." She turns to the Imp. "We thank you for this gift, Lord Tyrion."

Before the Imp could return to his fellow colleagues, Ariyana Dayne noticed a bundle hidden underneath the pile of gifts.

"Wait a moment, Your Grace," she mused. All eyes looked to the Sword of the Morning. "There's one more left."

Sansa watched Ariyana, gently bouncing her babies on her lap when they fussed about. Lyonel grasped his tiny hands at his mother's dress and tugged slightly, Cassana chewed on her curled up fist, drooling on and gumming her appendage. Daveth watched on and leaned forward on the Iron Throne, curious as to what other gift laid in store for his son and daughter. Ariyana shuffled the gathered presents to the side, moving and turning it over. Lifting up one more, the Dornish Kingsguard noticed fine embroidered silk—clothes sewed and designed for the children's respective size.

"It's from Dorne," she mused. "They're each for the Prince and Princess."

While Ariyana presented the silk, Sansa's eyes examined the needlework. From firsthand experience, the Wolf Queen determined that whoever made them did an excellent job though nowhere even close to her sewing and embroidering abilities. Daveth, on the other hand, raised an eyebrow when Ariyana mentioned Dorne.

"Who in Dorne made them?" he asked.

"Your sister, Princess Myrcella Baratheon."

Daveth looked quite surprised. Every stitch, every embroidering… Myrcella must've put a lot of time and effort into making such attire fit for royal blood. She must've been excited about the prospect of being an aunt.

"Myrcella…" he quietly uttered under his breath.

Sansa looked at Daveth.  _'Dearest…'_

"Oh! By the Gods, how rude of me! I almost forgot something," Tyrion exclaimed in mock surprise. "Tomorrow is another cause for more celebration. All the lords and ladies gathered here will be gathering the gifts in the courtyard."

Daveth's concentration broke. He looked at Sansa in confusion; the Wolf Queen shrugged her shoulders in confusion as well.

"What do you mean?" Sansa asked.

Tyrion feigned being hurt. "You mean you don't know, Your Grace? Why tomorrow is His Grace's 20th nameday."

Murmuring amongst the courtiers spread, each of them remarking the arrival of another decade in the Oathkeeper's life. Daveth shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose; a feeling of restlessness was making his skin itch and his fingers twitch slightly—a reminder of his own nameday celebration just moments after what he believed would be a brief ceremonial event for his twins Lyonel and Cassana. Tyrion found his nephew's discomfort somewhat amusing—knowing how much the Young Stag wanted to get back to work; as soon as the courtiers left the throne room, Sansa stood from her seat and walked over to Daveth, carrying the twins in each arm.

"It's okay, little ones. Papa's here," she cooed to them. "Dearest, could you please hold Lyonel for me? My arms are getting a bit tired."

Daveth froze momentarily. Standing up from the Iron Throne, he cautiously held his arms out as Sansa moved to gently transfer Lyonel over to him. The firstborn twin fussed and complained about leaving his mother's comfort, often giving small kicks and flailing his tiny arms in the air.

"Gah, quite the feisty one aren't you, pup? Stubborn, perhaps," he observed. "Sometimes I don't exactly know which of us you got it from. Whether myself… or your mother here?"

Sansa puffed her cheeks. "You did  _NOT_ just say that, dearest," she pouted, placing one hand on her hip whilst carrying Cassana in the other.

"I sure did. What are you going to do about it?" Daveth teased.

"Oh, you are in very big trouble, Oathkeeper."

Playful banter aside, the sunset outside shined through the stained-glass window depicting the seven-pointed star of the Faith of the Seven behind the Iron Throne, orange and yellow peering onto the floor with the seven-pointed star's shadow being more prominent. Lyonel and Cassana close their eyes, opening their mouths to yawn and stretched their tiny arms to rub their eyes.

"Seems to twins are getting worn out with all this pomp and ceremony," the Young Stag noticed.

Sansa nodded. "So it would seem. Perhaps now is the time we should tuck them in their cradles for their nap."

Daveth shrugged. "Ugh, before they wake us up in the middle of the night again please…"

Normally Sansa would take that complain as somewhat demeaning if she didn't have any children, but she had to see his point. Ever since she gave birth, Lyonel and Cassana would wake up their parents at night—screaming, crying and demanding their attention; depriving them of sleep most of the time. Both the King and Queen would each wake up to take turns swaddling or rocking them to sleep, though Sansa was perhaps the most gifted at parenting than Daveth was; she was more patient and nurturing with them whereas her husband was annoyed by the constant wailing that would not cease whenever he held them. Sansa would even take a moment to sing a sweet melody to make Lyonel and Cassana fall back to sleep or breastfeed them when they were hungry.

Come morning both Sansa and Daveth were often seen having dark circles formed under their eyes due to lack of sleep, but it was a job they knew they were walking into and signed on anyway.

"They're just babies, love," Sansa pointed out. "My brother Rickon was just as loud when he was born nine years ago. It's not their fault."

Daveth shook his head. "I know that. Myrcella and Tommen were like that, just… not that loud. Still, I agree we should put them to bed now before they decide to wake us up again."

"It's still bound to happen again," she corrected him.

_'Can't wait…'_  he thought sarcastically.  _'But before that, I think it's time I write a message to the Prince of Dorne himself.'_

Following Sansa and Daveth to Maegor's Holdfast, Sansa's handmaidens Shae and Brella and sworn shields Brienne of Tarth and Ariyana Dayne accompanied them. Ser Barristan Selmy and Ser Lucius Blackmyre accompanied them too. Before the royal councilors could retire to their chambers, Varys stopped them.

"Before we retire to our chambers, my lords," the Spider spoke, "the engineers the King hired to work on one of his projects has been completed. They await us at the cellars beneath the Red Keep."

Tyrion tilted his head. "And pray what was my nephew working on?" he asked.

Randyll Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and Master of Ships, stood tall and firm. "Good," he said fiercely. "Then it's time we best examine His Grace's project ourselves. See if they met his standards."

One by one, the royal councilors Varys, Tyrion Lannister, Randyll Tarly, and Grand Maester Pycelle moved down the steps leading to the cellars below. Each of the other councilors were more curious as to what the Young Stag's project entailed and why it was kept hidden from them with the exception of Varys and Randyll until recently.

* * *

**Beneath the Red Keep…**

* * *

Walking along the torch lit underground vaults of the Red Keep, Varys, Randyll, Tyrion and Pycelle gazed around the dank cellars. Turning the corner, Randyll and Varys noticed several old rotten woods covered with scattered, dusty banners of House Targaryen: a red three-headed dragon on a black field. Their house words "Fire and Blood" were still felt throughout the history of the Seven Kigndoms even into the present. Taking a moment to explore their surroundings, each of the royal councilors passed by 19 dragon skulls of various sizes; some of the skulls were average or small, roughly the size of an apple, small cats, dogs or large horses.

"Have you ever been down here before, my lords?" Varys asked.

Randyll shook his head. "No."

"Can't save either of us have," Tyrion agreed. "Not since Robert had the Targaryen dragon skulls removed from the great hall when he took the throne."

"Eugh, umm… Curious th-that King Robert did not h-have them all destroyed," Pycelle mentioned.

"They must've been considered his war trophies," Randyll theorized.

The Imp spoke again. "Robert knew he couldn't keep them around. Who knows? They must've made him look small. Cersei always did mention that he would come down with his whores occasionally to look over them, to gloat about his triumphant victory at the Battle of the Trident."

As they turned the corner, a group of 15 craftsmen and a dozen tall Ibbenese natives looked down at them. One of the craftsmen, Darrik—a siege weapons designer from Tyrosh—bowed his head in acknowledgment.

"Welcome, my lords," he greeted with a thick Tyroshi accent. "We've been awaiting your presence for quite some time."

Varys nodded in acknowledgment. "You are too kind. We welcome you to King's Landing. His Grace, King Daveth Baratheon, sends you his greetings. I am Varys, Master of Whisperers."

"I am Tyrion of House Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West and Master of Coin," Tyrion introduced himself. " _And_  the King's uncle."

"Lord Randyll of House Tarly, Lord of Horn Hill and Master of Ships," Randyll said plainly.

"Mmeuh… Grand Maester Pycelle, p-personal maester to th-the Iron Throne," Pycelle stuttered.

Darrik did not move. "So you're the Oathkeeper's royal advisors? I see."

"Neuhh… and who are these… men, you have with you?"

"The men of Ib," he explained. "Short, thick and hairy men… But the Ibbenese are quite crafty. Intelligent engineers and shipwrights, they're ships can survive even the harshest weather and their siege weapons can kill even the largest whales native to their island."

"You mentioned a project His Grace asked you to work on?" Randyll spoke directly, wanting to waste no time with mere pleasantries.

"Ah. He mentioned your… iron will. But yes, your Westerosi King hired the Ibbenese to construct rather sturdy artillery weapons meant for creatures larger than whales. Wasn't an easy task, but the Oathkeeper paid these men quite handsomely. A great deal of coin, I must say. So, when he asked us to build it, we got straight to work."

Darrik turned to the Ibbenese, motioning his head and spoke with low guttural and grunts. Randyll couldn't understand what he was telling them, but he scoffed and scowled at the sight of the Ibbenese.

_'Foreign savages,'_  he frowned.

The Ibbenese grunted and spoke their native language with guttural sounds, pushing into the end of the underground vault a large artillery weapon. Although covered with a large quilt, it was only evident that the tip of a large bolt was sticking out of it. Pulling the sheets off, the design looked nearly identical to a scorpion.

"Looks almost like a scorpion," Varys examined.

Darrik shook his head. "Not quite, Lord Varys," he explained. "This contraption was meant for combating dragons."

"Dragons?" Tyrion said in surprise.

"Yes, little man. Dragons," the Tyroshi pointed at the end of the hallway.

Varys, Tyrion, Pycelle and Randyll turned in the direction Darrik was pointing at. Before long, everyone was looking at the largest dragon skull in the room. The dragon skull was massive in size, the teeth were as long as swords and its jaws were large enough to swallow an aurochs whole or even a large mammoth in a single bite. Of the 19 dragon skulls, this one alone put the others to shame.

"Balerion the Dread," Pycelle exclaimed, both in aghast and astonishment. "The largest dragon in the history of the world, ridden by Aegon the Conqueror himself across the sea. Its flames forged th-the Iron Throne and br-brought the Seven Kingdoms to heel."

"Magnificent. Such a powerful beast it was," Tyrion said excitingly.

"But not invincible," Darrik said plainly. "Your Westerosi King told us that one large dragon, Meraxes, I think it was called… was felled by a bolt to the eye when Aegon Targaryen tried to take Dorne by force. If a dragon can be wounded…"

"…then they can be killed," Randyll finished.

"Exactly."

_"In time, Daenerys Targaryen will turn her attention towards Westeros. When she does she will have an army, a fleet and three dragons like her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror did 300 hundreds years ago,"_  Daveth's words rung through Varys's head during one of the Small Council meetings.  _"But that was then. The Seven Kingdoms will not be caught off-guard again like we were during Aegon's conquest, and we will be ready when Daenerys does decide to cross the Narrow Sea."_

A long-term military strategy, yet more lives would no doubt be lost. Daveth was making painstaking precautions to try to lessen the damage as possible, that much Varys knew, and war benefited no one but the powerful who put their own interests ahead of others.

"Pull that lever," Darrik pointed.

Randyll stepped to the artillery weapon and released a lever on the machine. Clicking of mechanisms, the artillery shot a giant bolt at incredibly high speeds which pierced and sunk deep directly into Balerion's skull and gets stuck.

"Money and time well spent," he mused.

Darrik nodded. "Our best artilleters and blacksmiths have been laboring day and night to see our work completed in the right fashion. Hitting a moving target will not be an easy task, but that was something the Ibbenese excel at."

"Then we'll begin making the necessary arrangements," Randyll examined. "We'll be fitting our soldiers and war galleys with these weapons and have them practice day and night."

Pycelle murmured. "Th-the King will no doubt be pleased with your handiwork."

Darrik was pleased. "That is something the Ibbenese like to hear. They like to know that their work is appreciated."

As Darrik and the rest of the royal councilors began discussing armament and payment, Varys turned his back away from them an unveiled a secret scroll hidden away in his robe's sleeves. Quietly unwrapping it, the paper was revealed to contain Daveth Baratheon's handwriting.

_"I've no desire to see the realm be worn down to nothing but a pile of ash, nor will I sit idle if the people I'm sworn to defend end up suffering and dying as they did when the Mad King ruled,"_  the message wrote. _"But due to conflicting reports, I am tasking you to have your little birds find their way into Meereen and learn more about Daenerys Targaryen. Once that's done, I'll do the rest."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gifts and praises to the newborn Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana Baratheon, a secret project revealed and apparently two minds are almost aligned with one another. Both Daveth Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen plan on learning more about the other before they make their move. Also it is revealed that both Daveth and Sansa have acknowledged Tyrion Lannister's right of inheritance as Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West. No doubt some people might find this insulting and mocking, but who'll care? Ser Kevan Lannister is acting as Castellan of Casterly Rock and he's Lord Tywin's brother; a capable man. But what are your opinions about the transcript Daveth mentioned earlier about sending a message to Doran Martell? Think it'll set the stage for an inevitable visit to Dorne? Thoughts? Let me know.


	81. Another Year, Another Nameday

**In the Red Keep…**

* * *

Nightfall had once again consumed the skies above King's Landing. Snugging underneath his bedsheets rested Prince Tommen Baratheon, youngest brother of King Daveth I Baratheon and publicly acknowledged as second-in-line of the throne behind his newborn nephew Prince Lyonel. The 14-year-old is known by most at court as kind hearted and well-intentioned, but considered a passive and weak-willed lad. Despite his shortcomings, Tommen actually tries very hard to meet the expectations set on him. Even Daveth himself occasionally took time out of his schedule to help educate Tommen on political intrigue and learn the importance of what it means to govern should anything happen to him.

Tommen groaned, stretching his arms out to the side and gave a big yawn. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for a glass of warm milk. Tommen felt the liquid slide down his throat with each gulp and set the cup down. Deciding that he would not fall back to sleep for at least a while, Tommen gazed at the nearest painting across from him. It was an old portrait; one from a time from when the royal House Baratheon of King's Landing was whole: from left to right, the painting depicted a younger Daveth holding a toddler Tommen, a younger Joffrey posturing as if he meant to make himself look more glorious and a younger Myrcella smiling sweetly. Behind them was their father King Robert I Baratheon and Queen Cersei Lannister.

Looking at it somehow made Tommen feel saddened.  _'Another life, another time,'_  he would sometimes ask himself in times of doubt.  _'Back when we were… happy, I guess. Brother didn't smile enough, but kept some for 'Cella and me.'_

_"Pway wif me, big bwover! Come pway wif me!"_  a 3 ½-year old Tommen would pester Daveth almost regularly.

_"Okay, Tommen,"_  a 10-year old Daveth would reply.

Tommen looked back on those memories fondly, even if they had faded away a bit once he grew older. As a child, wherever Daveth went Tommen was not too far behind him like a puppy on a leash. The lords and ladies of the royal court often remarked how cute the boys looked—complementing on how good Tommen was behaving. On the other hand, whenever their brother Joffrey bullied and tormented Tommen (whether physically or emotionally) or even killed his pets for amusement, it was Daveth who intervened and put an end to it—sometimes if it meant being physical.

_"He-he killed my-my… Joff killed Ser Fonsie!"_  a 6-year old Tommen sobbed, referring to a fawn he once adopted as a pet, burying his face deep into Daveth's shoulder to cry on. Moments before their brother Joffrey had killed and skinned the animal.

A 12-year old Daveth ignored the tears and snot staining his attire; instead patted Tommen's head and held him close.  _"Shhh, shhh, shhh. Hush, Tommen. Dry your eyes and go to room. I'll take care of it."_

And take care of it he did. The next day, Daveth returned with a litter of kittens—much to Tommen's delight. Indeed, the youngest Baratheon wiped his puffy eyes and was back to his old self in no time. But it was also the beginning of the hated sibling rivalry that formed between Daveth and Joffrey—and the estrangement from their mother Cersei Lannister.

Nowadays, Prince Tommen knew his brother would have any time to spare now that he's not only King of the Seven Kingdoms but now as a father himself too. It was something that Tommen wanted from the beginning as soon as his awareness matured; a family, whole and supportive. But there was indeed a slimmer of hope he held for himself once he was informed of his engagement to Lady Margaery Tyrell.

Outside his room, a small sound broke his concentration. Tommen looked at the edge of his bedroom door, now cracked open ajar and assumed it was one of his cats.

"Ser Pounce?" he called out.

But lo and behold, Tommen soon noticed he had a visitor: Margaery Tyrell. She hadn't made any formal requests known and it was possible that King Daveth wasn't aware of her unannounced visit to the Prince's room at this hour. Holding a lit candle in her left hand for illumination, Margaery looked absolutely beautiful despite the twelve-year age gap between them; an olive-green ivory dress with golden rose embroidering and seed pearls, her soft curling brown hair was as smooth as silk, and her slender but womanly figure was enticing; quite tempting in Tommen's opinion. Understandable, considering he found his betrothed so attractive. Even so, he shook his head to rid himself of any perverse thoughts.

Tommen blinked. "How did you get past the Kingsguard?" he whispered curiously.

Margaery gave a sweet smile. "A bit of charm and grace never hurt anyone," she answered, "so long as words are chosen carefully and timed just right."

_'You make it look so easy,'_  the Young Cub suspected. Still, he kept his voice quiet—not wanting her to get into any trouble. "I… I don't think you're supposed to be here," he watched Margaery lean on his bedside, lighting candles nearby. "Daveth doesn't let me have visitors at night."

"I'm not a visitor, my Prince. Word has it I'm to be your bride once your nameday has passed," she explained.

Tommen gulped. "Y-yes, of course. My brother did mention that much."

"Did you know that people in arranged marriages often never meet until their wedding day?"

_'We met Sansa at Winterfell three years ago and THAT was before father decided to marry her to Daveth the next day,'_  Tommen remembered. He kept his mouth shut and shook his head; perhaps this was another lesson he needed to learn.

"So until then, before we decide to spend our lives together, we ought to get to know one another. Don't you think?" she continued and leaned closely, applying aptitude intelligent shrewdness in her voice.

She was getting a bit close to Tommen; his face slowly reddened at Margaery's charm and beauty. The Tyrell maiden felt as if she won the first match effortlessly.

_'So easy, and yet so cute,'_  she complimented herself.

Tommen's blush deepened, trying desperately to maintain appropriate eye-contact with Margaery without his eyes glancing down at her bosom before quickly bringing them back up. "Y-yes," he stammered. "But if my brother finds out, then he'll—"

Margaery pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "It can be our little secret. Hmm? If we're going to man and wife, we'll have a few secrets from him, I hope. Only a small one never hurts once."

_'Well…'_  the Young Cub thought,  _'I-I suppose at least one little secret wouldn't hurt. Daveth will understand, I hope.'_

"So, my Prince," Margaery applied her charm, leaning close to Tommen's face, "tell me a secret and I'll tell you one of mine."

Tommen gulped and felt his heart racing faster. He felt unnerved by her presence. But before he could say anything, both Tommen and Margaery received an untimely welcome.

"*MEOW!*"

One of Tommen's cats meowed and jumped on top of the bed, surprising Margaery as the animal nuzzles up to her. Tommen smiled as she pets the feline gently.

"Well, hello there. Aren't you a proper fellow?" Margaery feigned surprise.

"That's Ser Pounce," the Prince said, referring to his cat.

"Very handsome."

Tommen's smile vanished and turned into a frown. "Joffrey didn't like him," he confessed.

Margaery raised an eyebrow.  _'Ah yes, him. Their other brother, Joffrey Baratheon; the cruel one His Grace personally exiled to the Night's Watch for instigating that bloody slaughter,'_  she realized, referring to the murder of King Robert I's bastard children.

"He threatened to skin Ser Pounce alive and mix his innards up in my food so I wouldn't know I was eating him."

Ser Pounce jumped off the bed, leaving Margaery and Tommen alone again.

"That's very cruel," she sympathized. "We heard what he did back at Highgarden. You don't strike me as cruel, though."

Tommen shook his head. "No. I don't think I am. I never want to be like that."

Margaery felt herself breathe a sigh of relief.  _'Good; at least his heart's in the right place.'_  She placed a hand on Tommen's shoulder. "That's a relief to hear, my Prince. Because you do know what happens when we marry, right?"

Tommen nodded his head eagerly. "Mhmm! We say our vows in front of the High Septon, and after the ceremony there's a feast—"

Margaery took advantage of the distraction and pressed her lips against Tommen's ever so gently. Tommen was taken aback by his betrothed's act, but did not resist. Her scent smelled of spring roses and her lips tasted like sweetened honey. Tommen instinctively kissed Margaery back, returning it with as much passion as he could possibly muster. Margaery giggled at Tommen's inexperience and pulled away. The Young Cub tried to kiss Margaery again, but she placed a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Uh-uh, my Prince," she teased, waiving a finger from side-to-side. "There will be more of that later. Because when we marry, I become yours…  _forever_."

Tommen blushed again, eagerly anticipating the time when his wedding comes along. In his mind, perhaps it would be as lavish as it was with Daveth's and Sansa's wedding. Margaery looked at the door, noticing the distinctive sound of footsteps approaching.

"It's getting late. I should return to my room," she said. "May I come and visit you again sometime?"

Tommen nodded.

_'So easy, like training an eager puppy. Give him a tasty treat and he'll soon be begging for more,'_  Margaery thought. "All right then," she whispered. "Remember now, it's our little secret."

Tommen nodded. Margaery kissed his forehead and soon took her leave, glancing over her shoulder and waved goodbye—one more charm of the night. Once the doors closed behind her, Tommen slumped back onto his pillow and smiled to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

_'Brother… thanks for arranging a suitable match for me!'_

* * *

**At the Red Keep gardens…**

* * *

The following morning was proving to be just as lively as it was the last one. In the castle gardens, King Daveth I Baratheon was receiving gifts from the various nobles who had arrived moments earlier to congratulate the Young Stag on his nameday celebration. In accordance, Daveth bowed his heads and thanked them for their gifts. It was big, but Daveth was rather insistent to Tyrion that the expenses would be kept to a fair minimum; the Imp understood, of course—his nephew wanted to ensure the crown's finances would be carefully balanced and maintained, and not to be spent recklessly or overdone with a lavish ceremony. That of course meant no jugglers, no 77-course meals… nothing too extravagant.

The guests at the celebration were reveling in much food and drink such as sister's stew, biscuits, honeycomb, sherbert, strawberry pie, lamprey pie, whisker fish, chicken, pomegranates, plums, hippocras, mead, Arbor Red and Dornish Red.

Guests each presented their gifts to the King: from Lord Yohn Royce, a rare gyrfalcon; Lord Selwyn Tarth presented a gem encrusted scabbard for the Young Stag's Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer. Although both knew there were actually no sapphires or rubies on Tarth, Lord Selwyn reassured him the gems were sold to him from a wealthy merchant in Braavos; from Ser Ronnet Connington, a lance with a shield covering the handle with a sigil depicting a mythical griffin; from Lord Leyton Hightower, a white marble model of the Citadel.

"20 years old!" Tyrion sat next to him, drinking from his goblet of wine. "Tell me, nephew, how does it feel to be another decade older?"

"Must you really ask me that sort of question?" Daveth retorted, sticking his fork into a piece of kidney pie before eating it. "Mmm. This is a good pie."

The servants serving the food overheard the King's praise and smiled to themselves. They slaved all day and night over a hot pot and worked the ingredients; flour, lard, water, eggs, milk, bottom round steak and calves' kidneys with gravy, peas and onions.

"A compliment! Why I'll be sure to tell the royal chefs that the King enjoyed their finest masterpiece."

Daveth groaned. "All right, now I know you're doing it on purpose."

Tyrion feigned being hurt. "On purpose? Me? By the Gods, you wound me, Your Grace. You know I would  _never_  do such a thing!"

"Uh-huh. Suuure you don't," he replied.

Beside him Shae and Brella held Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana, with the two infants occasionally fusing and whining about the noisy celebration. Wet nurses who bore children of their own played a role in calming them down. As he sipped his wine goblet, Daveth looked across the guests. Each of the Kingsguard was assigned to their specific posts; Barristan and Lucius stood by the main table; Jaime near the center; and Brienne and Ariyana both covered the exits.

"Where is she? Lord Tyrion, have you seen Sansa anywhere?"

Tyrion shook his head. "Not lately, Your Grace."

"It's not like her to miss out…" Daveth turned to his squire. "Olyvar, have you by any chance seen or heard from the Queen at all?"

Olyvar shook his head. "No, Your Grace. Not once."

Daveth was anxious as to find out exactly where Sansa was until another visiting guest approached. A tall, old man wearing fish-like scales mail and leather sleeves carrying a bushel of freshly caught trout in one hand and a bag of coin in the other. The Young Stag looked at him and recognized him.

"Ser Brynden Tully."

The Blackfish cackled. "Hah! There aren't that many wet shits in the Seven Kingdoms who call me that; probably because they don't remember my real name."

Randyll Tarly and a few conservative nobles frowned at the Blackfish's choice of words.

"Sorry about that, Your Grace. Spent too many years around lancers and pikesmen."

Daveth waved a hand. "No, no, it's quite all right. How fares Lord Edmure?"

"Ehh, missed the wedding. But from what I've seen at Riverrun, foolish nephew stopped his complaining as soon as he saw what his bride actually looked like on their wedding night," he mentioned.

Olyvar frowned.  _'That's my sister you're talking about, old man!'_  he grumbled.

"And?"

The Blackfish placed a bag of coin on the table. "He likes her. The only Frey Edmure actually approves of. I'll admit Roslin is quite a pretty thing. Not like the rest of the Late Walder Frey's brood."

"Ahem!" Olyvar cleared his throat, clearly annoyed.

The Blackfish stared at him. "Ah, speaking of brood seems we've got ourselves another."

_'No need to remind me of them,'_  Daveth shrugged. "You remember my squire Olyvar Frey?"

"With a face like that, how could anyone  _not_  forget?"

That remark earned a stifled chuckle from the guests, angering Olyvar.

"You—"

The Young Stag quickly intervened. "Olyvar's come quite a long way since our first crossing of the Twins. Considering his growing aptitude and contribution during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, he's more likely to earn himself a knighthood in honor of House Frey in a matter of weeks if not months."

Olyvar smirked, but noticed the King glancing back at him.

" _If_  he behaves himself."

The young Frey said nothing and begrudgingly bit his tongue.

"Well, seems like quite an achievement for the King here to speak up in defense for you," the Blackfish complimented. "If you say so, Your Grace. Sorry I couldn't bring anything fancy; the Riverlands are rather busy gathering the crops and harvests for the coming winter."

"So I see. That's fine, then. Please enjoy the food and entertainment."

"Don't mind if I do."

Olyvar leaned in. "Your Grace, wasn't that being a bit too lenient?" he whispered.

"Let's just say that the more time you spend on the battlefield with the men under your command, you learn to get used to the words that come out of their mouths no matter how derogatory," he answered.

"If you say so."

More visitors came bearing gifts. What felt like hours passed when Daveth finally noticed his wife Sansa Stark carrying a gift of her own. The Young Stag stood motionless and took in her new look; Sansa wore a teal velvet gown with an embroidered collar beaded with a steel grey, silver direwolf embellishment with pearl beads and faux fur cloak. More noticeably is that the court noticed Sansa had styled her auburn hair similar to her mother Lady Catelyn Stark, sporting it in a simple braid tied off with twine to draw out her inner strength.

"Sansa…" Daveth spoke. Indeed, the Wolf Queen was looking so beautiful this morning—especially with the rays of the sunlight highlighting shades of the color red off her hair.

"I take it the way you're staring at me in this new dress so much is you're way of telling me you approve?" Sansa teased.

A few courtiers snickered and Daveth's face flushed embarrassingly.

"I… Th-that's not what I meant!" he stammered. "I meant to say that I like the wolf bit."

Sansa smiled. "Flatterer. Though I suppose it's a good thing it's your nameday today because I made this for you on behalf of my family, House Stark."

From the Wolf Queen, she laid onto the table her present prepared for her husband; a warm black winter cloak almost five feet in length with grey fur stitched into the collar and 3 ½-inch crossed thick internal leather straps in the style of the North. The only noticeable difference in the cloak is the sigil of a crowned stag stitched into the leather.

"I made it like the one my father used to wear," she explained. "As near as I can remember."

Daveth brushed his hand across the cloak. "You made this yourself?"

"I did. Do you like it?"

The Young Stag needn't answer that as he stood up from his seat to kiss his wife. Onlookers had noticed the act of affection between the King and Queen. For a long minute, Sansa sighed happily into the kiss before Daveth pulled back.

"How's that for an answer?" he asked.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'," Sansa replied.

The Wolf Queen circled around the table to sit next to Daveth, seconds later Tommen himself had arrived to the table to sit alongside his remaining family members. The Young Stag noticed how awfully cheerful he's being lately, but paid him no mind at the moment. He had presented his brother some strange foreign painting of Volantis, though Daveth wasn't necessarily sure what to make of it yet.

The last noticeable guest bearing a gift was a tall, old man around 70 years old with a stern face. Grey hair, a thick beard and a bald head, his cloak bore the sigil of a dark green turtle on a field of pale green. The Young Stag was not familiar with him nor did he recognize him.

"And you are?" asked Daveth.

"Lord Eldon Estermont of Greenstone, Your Grace," he introduced himself. "I served your father and grandfather for many years when they ruled the Stormlands. Your grandmother, Cassana Baratheon, she was my sister."

Daveth blinked. If what the elderly Lord Estermont was telling him was indeed true, then that would make him the Young Stag's great-great-uncle. The oldest living relative he's got.

"Dearest, I didn't know you had a great-great-uncle still living," Sansa spoke.

"Neither have I."

"I suppose you wouldn't have known that much about me. The rest of us in the Stormlands are quite… unhappy with Stannis's rule as of late, but that's not why I'm here."

With a snap of his fingers, the Lord of Greenstone had his servants actually wheel in the gift he planned on presenting. Wrapped in cloak, Lord Eldon unraveled it to show a weapon of immense size—a two-handed spiked iron warhammer weighing about 50-70 pounds; the hafted was crafted with steel covered with a genuine leather wrap with gold plated accent rings; the metal head had an antique finish with gold painted inlay which was 14 ½ inches long; and the plaque itself silkscreened fiber board. Lord Eldon knew it was aged and had his smiths repair and polish it beforehand.

Daveth appeared to somewhat recognize it. "Is that…?"

"Your father's warhammer, Your Grace," Lord Eldon acknowledged. "The same one Robert used to slay Prince Rhaegar at the Battle of the Trident. I had the smiths fix it up for you; figured it was time for his son to inherit it."

Daveth stood from his seat and approached the warhammer.

"Careful, dearest," Sansa called out to him. "Try not to strain yourself."

Leaning down to grasp the handle, he pulled but one tug hardly made it hard to budge—requiring the Young Stag to use both hands to lift it up. A couple of groans and grunts later, Daveth lifted up his father's monstrous warhammer before he stumbled forward sharply.

"Waah!" he loudly exclaimed in surprise as the tenderizing flat end of the warhammer hit the ground. Onlookers moved to stop Daveth from falling hard and help him regain his balance. "Seven hells, this is heavy…!" his voice strained.

"That's because you spent most of your life wielding swords in battle," Eldon mentioned. "The more you spend time practicing with that hammer, the faster and more efficient you'll move in battle."

_'Two hands, yet father only used just one to use this lumbering behemoth?'_  thought the Young Stag, feeling veins popping in his forehead and neck.

As the courtiers backed off, Daveth tightened both his hands around the grip and lifted the warhammer up again. He almost stumbled again, but retained his footing. Daveth's face was turning read.

"Remember to breathe, Your Grace!" called out Jaime Lannister.

Daveth exhaled and panted, releasing his grip and noticed both his hands and knees were shaking slightly. An impressive weapon, but quite heavy and straining if carried for too long. This is going to take a lot of time and practice to utilize it properly. Sansa motioned for the guests to assist Daveth in returning to his seat. She was not happy.

"I thought I told you not to strain yourself," she quietly scolded him.

"Yeesh, sorry," he waved his hands up defensively.

Sansa sighed and shook her head as Shae and Brella handed her the twins. Lyonel and Cassana babbled happily and stretched their arms out, apparently happy to see their mother again and amused by their father's stunt. As she cooed at them, the Young Stag apparently noticed whilst fighting off a headache. Sansa was growing to be quite assertive lately.

"Yup. Quite the name day celebration indeed," Daveth quietly told himself as he shook his head.

By the end of the day, all visitors eventually left to return back to their strongholds. Any leftover scraps of food were donated to the smallfolk at Queen Sansa Stark's suggestions; the citizens of King's Landing loved their new Queen and her children. For Daveth, it was just another bonding moment with his new family… provided his muscles would stop aching from lifting up his late father's warhammer the next day…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter so soon after the last one, but the first half mostly described Tommen's interactions with Margaery Tyrell. What was your take on that? What is Margaery up to? And as for the 20th nameday of Daveth himself, he ended up getting to know he has a distant relative and received the famous warhammer itself. Think it was appropriate for the son to inherit the father's weapon? Thoughts? Let me know.


	82. Fair Maiden and an Evil Bastard

**At Riverrun…**

* * *

Within the ancient halls of Riverrun, the ancestral seat of House Tully, an old laid on a bed. His eyes were closed, his long white beard trimmed, his skin paled and wrapped in bandages laced with herbal poultices as a result of a deep stab wound he sustained. He'd been unconscious for about a while now; his arms and limbs only twitched as he dreamed. Tending to him was a rather young woman, waist-length brown hair, light skin, a pretty face with a small chin, delicate nose and big brown eyes.

Lifting up the covers to his bed, she delicately removed the bandage and leaned to her left to pull out a fresh one.

"Mmmm…" the old man stirred. His closed eyes twitched and he began to stir.

The young woman in question paused and observed him closely. As he slowly opened his eyes—taking in his surroundings—he tried to move, but felt a hand press against his bare chest.

"Easy now, kind ser," she beseeched calmly. "You're still in no condition to start moving about."

The old man looked at her. "Who… *cough* who are you, girl?" he asked wearily, his throat sore and dry.

"Lady Roslin Tully, kind ser," she introduced herself. "My husband is Lord Edmure Tully. I was born at the Twins a fifth daughter to Lord Walder of House Frey."

He blinked. "Edmure… you're his wife?"

Roslin nodded.

"Huh. *cough, cough* You're… you're not like the rest of Lord Walder's brood, rather pretty I might add."

"Thank you, ser. But again, please try not to move around so much. You're wounds still need healing."

Before he could speak, Riverrun's maester Vyman enters the room with a vial of milk of the poppy. Kneeling down to meet him at eye-level, Vyrman recognizes his patient.

"Ah, so you're finally awake," he said examining the stitched wound before wrapping another wrap of bandages. "For a while there, we feared you wouldn't pull through, Bodrin."

Bodrin, one of King Daveth Baratheon's contacts and representative of King's Landing's smallfolk, slowly looked down to examine his stitches. The last thing he remembered was trying to prevent Stannis Baratheon's soldiers and Melisandre from taking Gendry, struggling against the Brotherhood Without Banners, Beric Dondarrion, Anguy, Thoros of Myr… and the blade impaling him in the gut; then after that... nothing. For a moment, Bodrin believed he was going to die. For him to be in Riverrun, barely alive, it was somewhat of a miracle, a small stroke of luck—considering his age and frailty.

"How… how did you find me?" he asked.

Vyrman finished wrapping a new set of bandages. "One of our patrols found you laying in your own blood on the Kingsroad just a few clicks west of here."

"How bad were my injuries?"

"The blade was deep, but stopped a few inches short of hitting major body organs such as the stomach or the liver… Whoever did this hadn't had any real proper arms training; quite sloppy. As I said, you're lucky to be alive."

"It was *cough, cough*… it was the Brotherhood Without Banners," Bodrin revealed.

Roslin and Maester Vyrman stopped what they were doing and looked at him.

"A band of outlaws did this?"

Bodrin nodded his head weakly. "They were… they were led by Lord Beric Dondarrion. Whatever they used to be, they… *cough, cough* I've seen them do things."

"What things?"

"It's like… magic none of us have ever seen," he explained, referring to Thoros of Myr's power of resurrection and the flaming sword trick. "Unnatural. I saw 'em use it twice when Sandor Clegane—"

"The Hound was here? In the Riverlands?" implored Vyrman.

"Beric fought Clegane in a trial by combat, but lost. Hound cleaved him across his shoulder. But that Thoros of Myr… he has magic you wouldn't even dream of. Said some words, I couldn't hear them. And then the next… Beric was on his feet. Alive. I don't know how, don't know why. But there he was."

Vyrman and Roslin looked at each other, unsure of what to make of this.

"Fever must still be getting to him," the maester speculated. "My lady, I'll take care of the rest. Please inform Lord Edmure about this Brotherhood Without Banners."

Roslin nodded and stood. "Please keep us informed of his condition, ser. If what he says is true, about the Hound or these Brotherhood bandits, we'll have to increase security."

Once the new Lady of Riverrun had departed, Maester Vyrman and Bodrin were alone.

"What else do you remember?" the old maester whispered.

Bodrin's head was spinning; whether it's the fever from his infection or from drinking milk of the poppy, he couldn't say. "There was… a red priestess."

"Priestess? What kind of priestess?"

_"You are more than they could ever be. They are just foot soldiers in the great war. You will make Kings rise and fall,"_  Melisandre's voice rang through his head.

_"I'm sorry, old friend. But we serve the Lord of Light, and the Lord of Light needs this boy,"_  Beric's voice rang through his head.

His thoughts turned to Gendry, last surviving bastard son of King Robert I Baratheon; Daveth's half-brother. Bodrin had taken Gendry out of King's Landing when Joffrey ordered the deaths of all of Robert's bastards and looked after him during their time together on the road. Gendry was as stubborn as an ox, and Bodrin knew that the lad was still young—eager to seek out his own path ever since his dismissal from Tobho Mott's service at the Street of Steel. Ever since Gendry was taken away by Melisandre, Bodrin fought tooth and nail to get him back—and paid the price with a blade piercing his flesh.

"She's an evil witch," he spat. "Took the boy away with her. Dragonstone, I think. My gut tells me Gendry's in danger. I know deep down she'll kill him if we don't get him out of there."

Vyrman curiously raised an eyebrow. "Why would she take an interest in this bastard?"

"This one is different, Vyrman. He's strong and has a talent for fighting, not just working an anvil."

"And? What makes this boy so important?"

This discussion was getting nowhere fast enough so Bodrin decided to tell him the truth. "Because the boy… Gendry, he's the last surviving bastard of Robert of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men."

Vyrman stared at Bodrin, listening to every word he said. It was true that the late King Robert was quite promiscuous and fathered multiple bastard children with whores or any women he encountered. His lusts were the subject of ribald drinking songs throughout the realm. Even as far as Riverrun, House Tully heard what had happened in King's Landing during the culling of Robert's bastards.

"That red witch mentioned power in a King's blood," he continued. "And I think she'll kill Gendry to get it."

"Does this have anything to do with the current King? Do you think His Grace will become a target?"

Bodrin looked uncertain. "I don't know, but I've no desire to find out."

Vyrman sighed and shook his head. "If what you're saying is true, then I'll see what I can do. I'll bring word of this to Lord Edmure."

Bodrin tried to move. "I…" his voice strained. "I need to write a letter. Send a raven to King Daveth."

" _You_  are in no condition to move about. Did you not heed Lady Tully's words?" the maester placed a firm hand on his patient, stopping him in his tracks. "You need to rest. I'll send a raven to King's Landing for you."

He hated feeling powerless, but given his current condition he felt he wasn't given a choice in the matter. Slowly laying his head back down, Bodrin could only watch as Maester Vyrman left the guest room—leaving behind a vial of milk of the poppy and other medicinal herbs. His bandages were new, but his stitches still needed to properly close the wound as his body fought off any infections lingering within him. Bodrin would have a terrible scar at the end of the day, that much was clear.

Whilst the sun's rays shone through the castle walls of Riverrun, Bodrin only thought about Gendry.

"Hold on, my boy…" he prayed. "I'll get you out of there, and away from that red witch's clutches."

* * *

**At the Dreadfort…**

* * *

Hidden from the eyes of most bannermen, Ramsay Snow and Locke had been prepping their men-at-arms for what appears to be an adventure… of a hunt, most likely. Ever since King Daveth I Baratheon publicly announced that Locke and his men infiltrated Winterfell, killed all the ravens and imprisoned most of House Stark's denizens to silence them in order to use Theon Greyjoy as a scapegoat during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, the North had been scouring the region day and night in search of him. Even the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, Robb Stark, was furious at Locke's deception and called for his head.

Ramsay, Lord Roose Bolton's bastard son, aided Locke and released him from imprisonment with the assistance of Ramsay's men-at-arms, a group called the Bastard's Boys. Once the restraints were removed, Locke felt a burning desire for payback.

He was now a wanted fugitive on the run.

"Fucking stag," he cursed. "Cheated me out of my earnings, humiliated me in front of everyone, now Stark wants my head."

Ramsay didn't look concerned even in the slightest. "Must have been quite a display, though the greater players always bounce back into the game. But if they believe they've earned themselves a happy ending, then they obviously haven't been paying attention as to how the game works." He grinned wickedly.

"Men like the Young Stag are just meat, stinking meat."

"Exactly!" the Bolton bastard exclaimed.

Once Ramsay and Locke and the Bastard's Boys avoided detection from the scouts stationed atop the Dreadfort, the winds changed slightly and each felt the temperatures beginning to drop. Regardless of House Bolton's fealty to House Stark or their opinion of their liege lords, they were always right in the end. Winter has come and they would bear the brunt of the weather first before the other six kingdoms combined. With the peasants gathering the crops, it was only a matter of time. And time was a resource Ramsay or Locke could ill afford.

"As Lord Bolton's eldest son," he continued. "I can assure you that whatever my father offered you I can reward you a thousand fold and more."

Even the Bastard's Boys knew that last statement from Ramsay wasn't true—but said nothing out of fear of inciting Ramsay's anger.

Long ago Ramsay had an older brother, a  _trueborn_  brother. Domeric Bolton, Roose Bolton's long deceased firstborn son and heir. Despite being born into the second most powerful noble house in the North with an intimidating family, Domeric was a harpist and very well-read and surprisingly considered by his fellow Northmen to be rather pleasant. He allegedly fell ill due to "sickness of the bowels" and died not long after meeting his half-brother Ramsay at the Weeping Water against his father's wishes since he had always wanted a brother of his own. Roose believed Ramsay poisoned Domeric out of jealousy and desire for power as a Bolton heir. Still, he hated being reminded of his origins.

_"Ramsay Snow, you mean. The bastard,"_  one of the smiths mentioned.

_"Never call him that!"_  a handmaiden would spray spittle.  _"Ramsay Bolton, not Ramsay Snow, never Snow, never, you have to remember his name, or he will hurt you."_

There was a smile on Ramsay's plump lips, but none in those pale, pale eyes. "Snow, the other northerners call me. But I say Bolton! Regardless of what my father says, we've been flaying our enemies alive for a thousand years. But what better way that getting what you want than by hunting what that certain someone cares more?"

Locke listened. "What'd you have in mind?"

"You want vengeance against the Oathkeeper. You up for a hunt?"

"Who am I going after?"

Ramsay reached into his pocket and unveiled a tiny scroll. Locke examined it closely as the bastard Bolton readied his pack of hunting dogs—the Bastard's girls; mean, vicious bitches trained to kill wolves and rip people to shreds as per Ramsay's instructions to the Dreadfort's kennelmaster. The pack is comprised of at least two different breeds of dog, the more common a large, muscular, black-haired dog commonly used for killing, and a smaller, more slender brown-haired dog typically used for tracking. Ramsay often starves his hounds as to increase their aggression and sate them with his human victims, who are devoured alive for his amusement.

Once Locke was finished looking over the parchment, he looked back as Ben Bones, Yellow Dick, Damon Dance-for-Me, Luton, Sour Alyn, Skinner and Grunt gathered with the hounds.

"They've been fed, but their aggression won't flare up until you've just about reached your destination," Ramsay explained. "Once they get going, it's almost hard for them to stop. These men will accompany you to your destination. The joy of the hunt."

"And that is…?"

Ramsay's smile was bone-chilling, the personification of pure evil. "Hunting in the harshest desert you can think of."

"Dorne."

"Find and capture Princess Myrcella Baratheon. Enjoy the hunt!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this cameo chapter marks the conclusion of Season 4; as we move onto Season 5 we are introduced to Roslin Tully (née Frey) and the revelation of Bodrin's fate. Also making a return to the scene is none other Ramsay Snow himself and the wickedly evil plan he has in store of inflicting pain and terror. How do you this will play out as we begin the next phase? Thoughts? Let me know.


	83. A Small Man Can Cast a Large Shadow

**YEAR 302 AC**

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Within the Small Council chamber, King Daveth stood at the head of the seat—having decided to restore order and return holding council meetings in its original adjacent room instead of taking place in the Tower of the Hand; an act thereby reasserting his display of dominance following the death of his late grandfather and Hand Lord Tywin Lannister. Returning as head of the council, today's meeting was bound to be busy. And personally, Daveth was more than eager to get back to work. Namedays, the birth of his twins… he felt somewhat restless during this last month.

As he was waiting for his advisors to arrive, the Young Stag was taking a brief moment to look over a letter Olyvar Frey delivered to him. The wax seal bore the sigil of House Martell, a yellow spear piercing a red sun. Once breaking the seal, Daveth read the letter.

> _"To the Oathkeeper Daveth of the House Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm,_
> 
> _As a gesture of good faith in light of the fulfilled promises made to House Martell, we hereby invite you to Sunspear to discuss formal peace talks between Dorne and the Iron Throne. One of our own—Prince Oberyn—has gone so far as to suggest on having us meet you in-person. Had it been someone else, I might have been more skeptical. But my brother told me about the risks you took and how you saved his life during the Trial by Seven against Gregor Clegane the Mountain._
> 
> _When Oberyn returned to Sunspear with the Mountain's head and told us what had happened, it served to confirm your earlier talk of reconciliation with Dorne was in fact a genuine one. It will not bring back our sister Elia or her children, but perhaps knowing that justice was served could bring us closure. As such, I'm inclined to agree with my brother on this one. If you are indeed serious about establishing an everlasting peace with us, then we appeal to your judge of character. Come to Dorne so as to make it official._
> 
> _Your sister Princess Myrcella has also extended an appeal to you, one sibling to another. She grows more anxious to see you again after spending many years apart._
> 
> _Signed,  
>  Doran Martell · Prince of Dorne, Lord of Sunspear"_

Daveth examined the last part repeatedly. This was it; a formal invitation to the principality of Dorne, to properly mend the bridge between the Iron Throne and the Dornish houses. Years of planning and each action carrying serious risks with it, the time had actually come. And Myrcella… the thought of seeing his sister again brought a small smile to his face, one that Daveth quickly brushed off as soon as he saw Grand Maester Pycelle, Varys, Tyrion Lannister, Barristan Selmy and Randyll Tarly arrive in the Small Council chambers. Much to their surprise, the royal councilors were joined by Mace Tyrell—Lord of Highgarden, Warden of the South and Lord Paramount of the Reach.

"You're late," he spoke, motioning for them to sit down.

As they each took their seats, Varys shuffled his arms in his sleeves. "We apologize for the delay, Your Grace. But I'm afraid that we were caught unaware that the meeting room was to be relocated here instead of the Tower of the Hand."

"You could have sent us notice," Randyll seconded.

Daveth remained unmoved. "True, but time is a luxury we cannot afford even during times of peace."

Standing between Varys and Randyll, Mace looked at the Young Stag. "Your Grace, it's a great honor to have been granted a seat on this council. I—"

"Take a seat, Lord Tyrell," Daveth cut him off.

Tyrion raised a curious eyebrow.  _'What seat? And why does Daveth sound like he's in such a hurry lately?'_  he thought puzzled.

Silenced into submission, Mace meekly took his seat between the Master of Whisperers and Master of Ships respectively and said nothing as the Young Stag shuffled around in his seat.

"We have only a moment for affairs of state. What do we have?"

Varys begun. "The fugitive Sandor Clegane was last spotted in the Riverlands, Your Grace, still remains at large on charges for desertion. My birds tell me the Hound slaughtered seven our soldiers sent to apprehend him. I believe the phrase 'fuck the King' was uttered."

"Disgraceful," Pycelle muttered; Lord Randyll's face showed disgust as well.

Barristan spoke. "Regardless, we must do what we can to minimize further loss of life. The Hound is a dangerous adversary, even more so when backed into a corner. With or without royal protection, it would take a lot only to persuade our men to even try to arrest him."

"Odd for the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard to offer a merciful approach to a man who abandoned his post," Randyll mentioned. "Even if we did, the proper discipline would be a formal flogging if not forfeiture of whatever holdings Clegane's Keep maintained.

"What would it take to make the common soldier wishful enough to try his luck with the Hound?" Daveth directed his question towards Varys.

"10 Silver Stags seems a generous bounty."

"Make it 100."

_'He's more himself when off the battlefield and out of the court room, but once on the battlefield he's like his father and his grandfather whenever he is in the court room,'_  suggested Barristan.

"What else?"

Pycelle stammered a bit. "Oh, uh… W-we will need a new Master of Laws, a new Hand of the King, and there are other appointments that require our attention at some point," he explained.

Daveth rolled his eyes. He knew he would eventually have to make more appointments, especially filling the two vacancies on the Small Council.

Mace cleared his throat. "Your Grace, I would be willing to serve temporarily as Acting Hand until a permanent replacement is—"

The Young Stag casted a cold, hard glare at the Lord of Highgarden, prompting Lord Mace to quickly clamp his mouth closed and look away, unable to meet Daveth's gaze. The King understood that Mace is not evil at heart and is a good, amiable man, but was noticeably being a bit greedy and ambitious—something Daveth felt compelled to curb. He already extended an olive branch to House Tyrell, and warned them not to push their lucky if they were to remain in his good graces.

"Your Grace," Pycelle intervened, "in the past on several occasions, a Grand Maester has served as the King's Hand."

His gaze shifted from Mace Tyrell to Grand Maester Pycelle; feeling the room grow cold, Tyrion and Varys knew that Daveth had never forgiven Pycelle for selling him out when he arranged Myrcella's betrothal to Prince Trystane Martell years earlier nor forgotten what the old man did. If this was Pycelle's way of getting in the King's good graces, he'd have much better luck laying siege to the gates of the Seven hells itself.

"I find your lack of loyalty these last few years quite disturbing, Grand Maester," he coldly told him. "Keep pushing your luck with me and the Conclave will hear about it."

The thought of having his twelve square linked chain stripped away like Qyburn made even Grand Maester Pycelle cringe, thereby silencing the old man. Varys gives an amused smile as Tyrion watched eagerly at how quickly Pycelle backed down. Once his composure was regained, Daveth spoke more calmly, betraying no emotion.

"Well, that was brief," he said. "If there's nothing more to add, my lords, then this meeting of the Small Council is hereby adjourned. Dismissed."

Once the assembled Small Council members left the room, Tyrion followed suit but heard a voice calling from behind him.

"Not you."

Tyrion stopped in his tracks, out of earshot of his colleagues and noticed Daveth had already stood from his seat and was the one who called out to him. Once they were certain they were alone, Tyrion closed the doors behind him and approached his royal nephew. Now he felt the timing was more appropriate to press the matter.

"Any particular reason why you decided to include Mace Tyrell on the Small Council?" he asked. "And why you chose not to tell us?"

"The Tyrells are the Lannisters only true rivals in terms of resources, uncle. And yet we'll need them on our side," said Daveth. "Vesting the Tyrells in the crown will help a great deal in the long term."

"With the inclusion of the inevitable wedding between the Lord of Highgarden's daughter Lady Margaery to Tommen, I assume?"

"That's half true, but do you want to know the other half?"

"Humor me."

"Tell me: you're the Lord of Casterly Rock. How much gold do you think was mined in the Westerlands?"

"There was hardly… any at all," Tyrion remembered.

Daveth nodded. "Indeed. Unfortunate, but true. Ser Kevan informed me that House Lannister's goldmines ran dry four years ago long before my coronation. The amount of money I paid back to grandfather only served to stall for time. But I guess he knew it was inevitable."

"And I suppose the earlier proposal of marrying off Janei Lannister to Ser Loras was meant to lessen the burden? Last I heard although Janei was thrilled about the notion, Loras was somewhat… less than enthusiastic about it."

"Loras Tyrell prefers the company of men, but he's not that stupid. He knows that as the only son and heir of Lord Mace Tyrell, the future of House Tyrell rests on his shoulders. Whether he likes her or not, he'll do his duty."

"That doesn't answer my first question, though."

Daveth sighed. He decided to tell him the truth behind his motivation. "Lord Tyrell will be taking your place as Master of Coin."

Tyrion looked disappointed and somewhat frowned at the notion, as if he appeared offended. "Decided to get rid of me, hmm?" he said bluntly, almost in mocking tone.

Daveth shook his head. "No. There is something else; something I should have done a long time ago," he said as he moved towards the window.

The Imp noticed the rolled up piece of paper in his nephew's hand. "That letter—"

"It arrived just this morning from Dorne. It was sent to me from House Martell. Prince Doran himself invited me to Sunspear to meet with him to oversee the final stages of the peace talks."

Tyrion looked somewhat surprised. "Jon Arryn was the last person alive in King's Landing to visit Dorne. It was soon after your father took the throne away from the Mad King."

"I know," Daveth spoke simply. "His first task as Hand of the King was to broker an uneasy truce with Dorne, but even then there was still a persistent bone of contention. Lord Arryn could only have done so much, but I set out to finish what he started."

"You mean the marriage proposal between Myrcella to Prince Doran's son?"

"Well, yes and no. Like the Red Viper himself, Elia Martell was very popular among the Dornish people. Even after she and her children were killed by the Mountain, they still demanded justice; a cry that went unanswered and forgotten for 20 years."

"Until the Trial by Seven…"

"Correct. I put a lot on the line to reach out to the Martells when arranging Myrcella's betrothal, risked the stability of the Seven Kingdoms, to show them I was serious about making amends with Dorne. I know it was a risk, a big one, and the price of failure would be high but I took it anyway."

"A bold statement, though not sure most would see it that way."

"Not sure I'd call it that when you describe it. Bold? Reckless? Nothing's ever certain these days," he said, looking over his shoulder to look at Tyrion. "But do you remember what grandfather used to say about people?"

Ooh, that was a memory Tyrion remembered all too well. "'A lion doesn't concern himself with the opinions of the sheep'," he recited. "Talk to me, Daveth. Why are you telling me this?"

Daveth approached his uncle. "I've decided to accept Prince Doran's invitation."

Well now, this was a surprise. "When will you be leaving?" Tyrion asked.

"In three days by sea. I'll talk to Sansa and have our things ready for the journey soon. With any luck, and a little bit of help from the wind, we might make it to Sunspear fast enough. If not… well, at least you'll know I've tried."

"You're taking a huge gamble, nephew," he reminded him. "If Robert had set foot in Dorne during his reign, he would have lost a foot. If you go, you'll be surrounded by a country of hot-headed vipers at every corner."

"I know," Daveth replied. "But I won't be going alone. I'll have three Kingsguard and a few household guards to escort me."

Tyrion offered a suggestion. "If you're determined to see it through, and knowing you you will regardless, might I suggest taking Ariyana Dayne with you? She's from Dorne and has even mentioned being Prince Doran Martell's ward after her parents died. And being the Sword of the Morning, that name carries a great deal of influence among the Dornish."

The Young Stag thought deeply about this and nodded. "Agreed."

"But therein begs the question," the Imp paused. "With the royal family gone from court, who will be left to govern the realm in your absence?"

Daveth felt a small smile form on his face. "That's why I asked to speak with you in private," he reached into his pocket. "When I chose to appoint Mace Tyrell to the Small Council as Master of Coin, I did this not to slight you. When we leave, you and the others will remain here in King's Landing."

Tyrion eyed the Young Stag's hand closely. "And do what?" he asked.

"Rule," the Young Stag answered, pulling his hand out to reveal a golden brooch shaped like a hand.

Tyrion eyed the brooch and immediately recognized what it was. It was the Hand of the King's badge of office! His eyes widened and left visibly speechless, the Imp could only watch as Daveth knelt down to pin the badge on his uncle.

"I… should have done this a long time ago," he said apologetically. "The winds of change are upon us now, which means further reforms will be needed if we're to truly make the world a better place—a new generation modeled upon the old—and ensure stability along the way. A world we can be proud of, one worth fighting for. But we also need to understand that as times change, we ourselves must shake off any unnecessary shackles that weigh us down."

Once Daveth pinned the badge, he stood tall and spoke with a voice full of authority and firmness.

"Lord Tyrion Lannister, I name you Hand of the King."

Moved to near-tears, Tyrion Lannister knelt to one knee and lowered his head. "I…" he choked; the Imp wasn't expecting this at all. "I hope I serve you well."

Daveth waved his hand, motioning his dwarfish uncle to stand. "I know you will, uncle. Now and always," he reassured him. "You've given me good counsel and you get the results I need when I ask it. Just promise me one thing."

Tyrion stood. "What's that?"

"Just leave military strategy to me, okay? I've seen you fight. Still terrible at it," his nephew joked, referring to the Imp's scar across his face.

"Ah-ha. No worries about that, I assure you."

"It's your political mind I need, and I'd prefer it intact."

With the ceremony over and done with, Daveth took a moment to make his leave to his bedchambers—eager to ready himself and his new family for the voyage to Dorne. Deep down he was rather anxious, venturing into uncharted territory—a land he had never been to before. But the thought of what was waiting for him there… it made the Young Stag tremble slightly.

"Wait for me, 'Cella," he quietly told himself, barely able to contain his excitement. "Wait for me. Your big brother is coming to see you soon. I promise."

* * *

**At Maegor's Holdfast…**

* * *

Queen Sansa Stark was fawning over her twin children; Lyonel and Cassana were barely a month old now, yet were growing in size too. She held a toy in each hand, playing with her children. Sansa watched with a warm smile on her face as both Lyonel and Cassana happily babbled and reached their hands up, grasping the figurines their mother held for them.

"Aww, such good children," she cooed. "Yes, my little ones. Papa got you presents, yes he did."

"*Ga-gaooh*" Lyonel and Cassana held their toys; the male twin chewed on the head of the wooden knight, drooling on it slightly.

"Ha-ha, what a silly boy you are," Sansa observed. "That's not for eating."

Leaning against the doorway of their bedroom, Daveth watched the scene in front of him. Almost a month had passed since he and Sansa welcomed their first children into the world, twins no less. Sansa had quickly grown into her new role as a mother in stride. She was very good at it. The Young Stag was new to parenting even if he had prior experience in helping raise his younger siblings in the past, but how to be a proper father still eluded him; he knew it wasn't right to blame his late father King Robert for being neglectful and absent during his childhood, though Daveth still tried his best.

His thoughts were distracted when Cassana threw one of her wooden dolls across the room, smacking her father on the head.

***CLONK!***

"Gah!" he flinched quietly.

Hearing such a faint protesting sound, Sansa turned around to see Daveth open one eye and held a hand to rub his forehead; the Wolf Queen puffed her cheeks and bit her tongue, trying desperately to hold back a laugh to no avail.

"Oh my," she chortled. "Dearest, you should probably pay more attention next time. You know how wily Cassana's been getting lately."

Daveth rolled his eyes. "Ha ha, very funny," he remarked sarcastically. "Our children listen to you, but take it upon themselves to throw things at me or spit up on me. Gods be good, sometimes it feels like they don't like me."

Sansa shook her head in amusement. "I'm sorry, but I can't help it sometimes. You make the funniest faces when Lyonel or Cassana act up. They're babies, love. It takes time and patience for them before they're actually capable of understanding what you say."

"I know, I know. But the way you do it makes parenthood look easy."

Daveth walked up behind Sansa, wrapping one arm around her waist and another around the neck, drawing her close until her back presses against his chest before resting his chin on her shoulder. The Wolf Queen was kind of surprised by the act, but didn't resist. Instead, Sansa warmed herself up—occasionally glancing between Daveth and the twins still in their crib.

"They're beautiful," Sansa implied.

"Just like you," Daveth replied.

Shaking her head, Sansa kissed Daveth's cheek. "Flatterer."

"I try."

Sansa brushed against her husband, never taking her eyes off her children. Lyonel and Cassana each gripped their mother's finger on each hand, being met with gentle brushes of her thumbs across their tiny hands.

"Sometimes I wonder how you do it," Daveth remarked.

"Such a question often goes without an answer," she answered. "It's… more instinctive, an emotional attachment to a new life we create."

"Never thought of you as being philosophical."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Is a Queen not permitted to be philosophical?"

Daveth shook his head. "Have there been cases of exceptions?"

Both were moving to outwit each other, despite having known each other for four years and married for two. It was all fun and games; the back and forth banter. Daveth buried his face in Sansa's shoulder, exhaling slightly as his face turned serious.

"Dearest?" the Wolf Queen beckoned her husband, feeling his warm breath on her shoulder.

"I've made some arrangements for us to spend some time away from King's Landing," he told her. "Away from the politics, the fighting… all of it. Just the four of us."

Now Sansa was curious. "Away? Where are we going?" she asked.

"Dorne."

"Dearest, Dorne is the hottest region in Westeros even during times of winter," the Wolf Queen pointed out. "How will we keep the children cool enough? What if…?"

"Don't worry, Sansa. I wouldn't have made the decision likely without considering what-if scenarios. We'll keep Lyonel and Cassana cool and hydrated. I promise."

"I know you think you're doing what's best, but I still worry as their mother."

"And I as their father. We'll be escorted by our household guards and three Kingsguard."

Sansa sighed in resignation. "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

_'You're not the only one thinking that,'_  the Young Stag pondered. "Other than the heat, I've heard from Ariyana that Dorne is quite tropical this time of year."

"You ever have been to Dorne?"

"No. This is a first for me. You?"

"Dearest, how long have you known me?" she retorted. "You know I've never left Winterfell before I came to King's Landing when we were promised to each another."

"I stand corrected then."

Silence filled the room. Sansa had her fair share of concerns regarding Dorne; she wanted to spend more time with her family, but still held thought about the well-being of her children. Daveth broke the silence again.

"Myrcella will be waiting for us there," he mentioned.

"Your sister?" Sansa remembered. "She's still betrothed to the Martell Prince, yes?"

"She is. She's rather anxious to meet Lyonel and Cassana, you know."

"Then I suppose she'll get her wish soon enough."

Daveth knew that was only part of the main reason, but chose not to press further—considering he planned on meeting face-to-face with Prince Doran Martell to discuss peace terms; hopefully old wounds could be healed, but he wouldn't go that far until the negotiations actually begin when they arrive.

"When do we leave?" Sansa asked.

"Three days," Daveth answered.

"I'll have Shae and Brella pack our belongings and whatever necessities we'll need for the trip."

"And I'll oversee the security arrangements."

Turning to face her husband, Sansa kissed Daveth on the lips and left the room to seek out her handmaidens, leaving the Young Stag alone with the kids. He looked at the twins who looked up at him curiously. Picking up both children in his arms, Daveth looked at his son and daughter.

"You are going to behave yourselves, are you?"

"*Cough, cough!*"

His face froze in terror before shuddering in disgust, feeling white liquid on his shoulder before trickling down his dark velvet attire. Daveth held his breath and tried not to gag, taking a moment to pat each of his children on the back to burp them.

"*Belch!*"

Hearing the sounds from Lyonel and Cassana, Daveth returned his twins to their crib. His face still showed disgust as the stench of baby spit up found their way into his nostrils. Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana giggled at their father's facial expression, one that the King himself noticed right away.

"Yeah, I was kind of expecting you two would do that to me…"

What the Oathkeeper wouldn't understand, however, that as his family began making the necessary preparations for departure to Dorne, an unseen threat lurked in the northern shadows; one that was slowly making their descent downwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let Season 5 commence! Another chapter concluded, one including two more appointments to the Small Council. A new Master of Coin and a new Hand of the King. What are your opinions on Daveth choosing to appoint Mace Tyrell to oversee the royal treasury whilst Tyrion Lannister applies his skill at governance to work as Hand of the King when most of the royal House Baratheon of King's Landing makes preparations to sail for Dorne? Was it fairly balanced between the two? And what do you guys expect to see when the stag meets the viper? Let me know.


	84. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroken

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*: The following content may not be appropriate for certain persons under the age of 18 (depending on the legal age requirements in countries outside the United States) and may contain NSFW material such strong language, nudity, profanity and/or sexual themes that some viewers may find offensive. If you are under 18, do not view such content. Viewer discretion is advised.
> 
> If you are 18 and up, enjoy!

**Aboard the _King Robert's Warhammer_ …**

* * *

Night time on the ocean was considered by some as calm, relaxing… to others, it was perceived as a bad omen—yet each scenario depended on the weather conditions of their lands and the durability of the ship.

Sailing down the Narrow Sea, a lone vessel sailed down the eastern coast—the royal flagship  _King Robert's Warhammer_. The distance by sea from King's Landing to Sunspear or the Dornish port Planky Town was 1,615 miles and it would take some time for the party even with a 35 knots—a favorable gale considering the region Daveth and his small group was in. Sailors on the main deck were adjusting the sales: main, topsails, force sail, and jibs; down below the oarsmen accelerated the war galley's steering through the Narrow Sea.

Daveth had walked down below the deck—holding a book in hand—and looked out through the wooden openings to observe the full moon shining down from above.  _King Robert's Warhammer_  might be the largest ship of the Royal Fleet, but the Young Stag knew his way around the war galley enough to recognize each room. Even if it's just one ship, the flagship was more than capable of deterring pirates and enduring the oceanic waves bashing against it.

His squire, Olyvar Frey, held a lit candle and found the King.

"All is set, Your Grace. We should be arriving at Dorne within the next two or three weeks."

Daveth nodded. "Good. And the men up above remain at their post?"

"Yes."

"What is the status of my son and daughter?"

"Both Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana are sound asleep in their room," Olyvar answered. "Ariyana, Ser Lucius and Ser Jaime are standing guard over them just in case."

"Hmm. And the Queen?"

Olyvar pointed to the seventh door down the main hall. "In that room over there, Your Grace."

"I see," he observed. "That'll be all for now, Olyvar. Be sure to get some rest now. It's getting late."

"Shouldn't I be saying that to you, Your Grace?" the Frey joked.

The Young Stag rolled his eyes. "Careful now, lad," he smiled coldly. "I enjoy you, but be careful."

Olyvar chuckled, yet felt a strange chill crawl up and down his spine when Daveth said that. He shook his head and made for his chambers, yearning for some sleep. Daveth, meanwhile, set out to approach the room—to find his wife, Queen Sansa Stark. Arriving at the seventh door, the Young Stag pushed the door open—the hinges squeaking slightly and entered the cabin.

Sansa had donned on a long, sleeveless white nightgown; she was tired and getting ready for bed. She sat on a small wooden chair, staring into a mirror whilst brushing her hair. Shae and Brella had been sent to their own rooms—the closest ones to her children in case they ever woke up in the middle of the night again. Candles in the room were lit to illuminate enough light for them to see in the dark.

"Sansa…" he quietly called out.

The faintest sound calling her name, it was enough to cause Sansa to blink awake. She turned to see her husband sidling up to her after he had closed the door behind them.

"Mmph. You know I hate it when you sneak up on me like that," Sansa mumbled.

"Hate me for it if you must, my Queen, but you love it regardless."

Daveth wrapped his arms around her neck and held her close, planting his chin on his wife's shoulder. Sansa wearily held her hands on his arm, patting them before she briefly pushed back so she could stand up. With each step the Wolf Queen took, the more awake she grew. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Sansa rubbed her eyes as Daveth tossed off his black velvet attire and readied himself for sleep as well, holding in his hands a plain shirt before tossing it aside. The faintest scars on his body were light—healed from old wounds sustained at the Battle of Blackwater Bay and during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, but still visible; the scars across his cheek and eye were light as well, though the one on his cheek remained a slightly tad darker.

Sansa eyed Daveth up and down, admiring his physique. Lately he was getting stronger, probably from an exercise routine done mostly by carrying and/or lifting his late father's lumbering war hammer around the Red Keep; all of which had made his pecs, abs and biceps more visible—not surprising given the expectations of powerful Baratheon men.

"See something you like, Your Grace?" Daveth teased.

Sansa blushed and shook her head amusingly. "You're insufferable, dearest."

"I know."

Daveth eventually joined Sansa on the bed, both of them curled up against each other. Sansa looked over and noticed the book her husband was holding.

"New book?" she asked.

The Young Stag shook his head. "In a way; Maester Jurne got me this last year. But never mind that for a moment. If you'd please, look out the window," he pointed.

Sansa looked out the only open window in the cabin in the direction her husband was pointing to, observing on the southeastern coast north of Durran's Point stood a formidable fortress overlooking Shipbreaker Bay. Rocky and frequented by storms, the  _King Robert's Warhammer_ sailed outside the danger area at the King's behest.

"That's Shipbreaker Bay," Sansa recognized from her earlier studies as a girl.

Daveth nodded. "And above it?"

"Storm's End."

"Correct, Sansa. That's Storm's End, ancestral seat of House Baratheon once held by the Storm Kings of House Durrandon. I figured that one day I'd teach our children everything I know about the Baratheons."

Sansa rested her head wearily upon Daveth's chest, listening to his heartbeat. "Well, if that's what you'd like to do someday, I think it'd be fair that I teach them everything I know about the North, about Winterfell… and the history of my family House Stark. I could even send a raven to Robb and my mother and introduce them to Lyonel and Cassana."

Daveth rested his head on the pillow, wrapping one arm around Sansa and brushed his fingers across her back. "I suppose that's fair. Our children are of Baratheon and Stark descent. Makes sense for them to know their origins."

"Glad to know we're in an agreement then, dearest. Mother would swoon over her royal grandchildren if she were present right now."

_'Knowing Cat, I'm sure she would spoil them rotten…'_  the Young Stag thought.

The sky outside the window was beginning to darken when the moon disappeared behind a dozen clouds. Daveth laid down beside Sansa, listening to her give a quiet yawn, watching her snuggling against him. The Young Stag nuzzled Sansa's hair, detecting a faint scent of lemon and honey. His hand still massaged her back, feeling the touch of her skin through the fabric of her nightgown.

"I love you," Sansa murmured, looking up to give Daveth a sleepy smile. "You know that right?"

Daveth kissed Sansa's forehead. "And I you, Sansa. More than you know."

Cupping her chin with his left hand, Daveth leaned down and claimed Sansa's lips against his own, who responded with a happy moan. The Young Stag massaged the young woman's back before lowering his hand past her waist and cupped her butt. Softly at first, hardly touching, feeling the warmth of it beneath his palm, the skin as smooth as satin. He gave it a gentle squeeze, causing Sansa to gasp in surprise against her husband's mouth during their passionate kiss.

Pulling away to catch her breath, Sansa found herself crawling on top of Daveth—her cheeks blushing red. Her face was inches away from his, sensation sizzled across her body, up and down her spine. The King and Queen hadn't had sex in over a year due to the Queen's pregnancy, and more than a month to allow her body to properly heal after giving birth to their twin offspring just to be on the safe side.

"Do I have your consent?" Daveth asks.

Sansa, a nose tip away from her husband's, nodded. "Do what you will, my King. I'm yours," she answered.

Once understanding that she had given her approval, Daveth and Sansa resumed their make out session. While Sansa's hands explored Daveth's muscles, the Young Stag slid his left hand under Sansa's nightgown to fondle a breast. Sansa moaned again, feeling Daveth's thumb running lightly across her nipple, back and forth and back and forth until she felt it stiffen. Ripples of pleasure ran over her body.

"Does that feel good?" he asked.

"Yes," panted Sansa as she pulled away from the kiss.

"And this?" Daveth pinched the nipple now, gently twisting it between his fingers.

The Wolf Queen gasped and bit her trembling lower lip as her red hair fell in front of her face. "O-ooh, Gods…" she shook at the sensitivity.

Daveth took his time to allow Sansa's pleasure to build before moving onto the next phase, always ensuring she was as comfortable as possible. Sansa loved that about Daveth when he took her maidenhead during their wedding night; how attentive and caring he was towards her. She wanted to return the favor. Sansa slid her right hand down to Daveth's groin and felt an increasing bulge in his trousers. She unzipped his pants and slid her hand inside to grip her husband's growing erection, moving her hand up and down at an agonizing pace. Daveth's face scrunched and hissed at Sansa's teasing, the same thing she had done before.

Not wanting to be outdone, Daveth released his grip on Sansa's butt and slipped his fingers between her thighs, causing her entire body to jerk. He realized that the more he intimately touched her, the more she grew wet and aroused. The Young Stag slipped a finger into that northern swamp, then a second and a third, moving them in and out.

"Ngh! G-Gods, Daveth…"

Daveth interpreted Sansa's gasps as an approval and sped up the pace of his fingers; the Wolf Queen rocked her hips against the digits sliding in and out of her.

"W-wait, dearest. Wait!"

The Young Stag ceased his movements, wondering what might have caused his wife to ask him to stop. "What is it?" he asked.

Sansa's body shook, her pants hollow as she steadied herself above Daveth using only her elbow. She was so close from having an orgasm yet denied herself that release. Even in the heat of the moment, Sansa was still aware she had to keep her voice lowered to a minimum so as to not wake up her children. Once she recomposed, she looked at him.

"I… I'd like to undress, if it pleases you," Sansa explained between breaths.

Daveth nodded and withdrew his fingers. Still straddling her husband, Sansa lifted her nightgown over her head before tossing it to the floor, freeing her breasts. The Young Stag took in the sight of his wife's body before pulling her back down to kiss her, but Sansa placed a finger on her husband's lips to stop him.

"You've done much for me, my sweet King," she told him. "I don't want you to think I'm merely doing this simply because you want to claim your rights, but… But rather I'm doing this because I love you."

In moments, Daveth watched as Sansa freed his erect manhood from his trousers and drew a sharp breath when his Queen began stroking the shaft up and down. It was her turn to pleasure her husband.

"Ahhh, fuck…" Daveth groaned.

Sansa was still not used to listening to such vulgarity, but felt her husband must've been enjoying what she was doing so far. "Does… does it feel good, my love?" she asked.

"Uh-huh." The Young Stag instinctively moved his hips in time with her strokes, making love to her hand.

Noticing how lost in pure ecstasy Daveth looked, Sansa leaned her face forward—anxious and nervous. Now they've made love before, but this favor was new to her. She pressed her lips and kissed the very tip of Daveth's manhood, immediately followed by him briefly shuddering.

_'It's so salty. Am I… doing this right?'_  she wondered.

The Wolf Queen continued planting kisses along the side of the Young Stag's manhood before protruding her tongue and licked along the veined ridge of the base to the very tip; her ears still picking up the sound of Daveth shivering at the sensation—something he never expected Sansa to do for him.

"S-Sansa…!" he groaned.

She looked up at him and stopped at once upon seeing the look on his face. "Am I hurting you?"

Daveth shook his head. "N-no. No, you're not. That mouth of yours is driving me crazy."

Reassured that all is well, Sansa lowered her lips to Daveth's erection and took it into her hot, wet mouth and slowly started bobbing her head up and down, her red hair brushing over his legs. The Young Stag said nothing but felt as if his eyes were rolling to the back of his head; Seven hells this was a new one, perhaps one of the best, the suction, the tongue, the gentle scrape of her teeth. Looking up at him, Sansa brushed a few stray bangs from her eyes as she sucked softly, then harder.

"Aaaaah, Sansa…"

"Mmmmm," she hummed.

After a few minutes, Daveth groaned through clenched teeth and felt his balls began to tighten. His climax was threatening to arrive at any moment; until he placed his hand on her head.

"Wait, stop!"

Sansa pulled away and took Daveth's still-firm manhood out of her mouth, her hand still gripping him. She looked concerned. "What's wrong?"

"N-nothing. Seven hells, Sansa, that was too good," he shuddered. "But I want you.  _Now_."

_'Still such a pervert,'_ Sansa felt his erection twitch in her hand and shook her head amusingly in response; she had given him her consent and laid down on her back next to him.

Daveth climbed on top of Sansa and spread her legs apart, revealing her wet cunt. Rubbing his manhood teasingly across her opening, he watched her squirm beneath him. Her tissues there were swollen and sensitive.

"D-Don't, stop it. Not again," Sansa mewled. "Y-you said you wanted me right? If you have any affection for me, please put it in me."

"As you command, Your Grace," he acknowledged.

Taking hold of his manhood, Daveth traced the head over Sansa's wet entrance before pushing it inside of her.

"Oooh. Oh my Gods," Sansa moaned, her body twitched, her eyes glued to the sight of Daveth's manhood slowly sliding inside. "Oh, Daveth, make love to me." As she arched up to receive him a wave of orgasm hit her hard. She hadn't felt so full in a long time.

It was almost too much to bear. Daveth held his wife close as Sansa embraced him back when he was hilt-deep inside of her, savoring the hot, tightening sensation gripping him. Her breasts pressed against his chest, making her squirm more. Firmly gripping Sansa's hips, Daveth started thrusting into her. Flesh slapping against each other filled the room; her breasts bounced up and down.

"Ah! Huh! Oooh! Ah! Nngh!"

As they moved, a fire of sensations passed between them. Sansa wrapped her legs around Daveth's waist and it didn't take long for him to thrust deeper and harder into her. His lips met hers, their tongues battling for dominance; and both of them were moaning and gasping out endearments as Daveth suckled on one of Sansa's breasts, circling his tongue around her nipple.

"M-more," she whimpered. "Please; deeper, harder."

Sansa felt one orgasm after another washing over her, her maidenhood clenching tight around Daveth's manhood as she climaxed again. Daveth continued to pound into his wife, dropping his head down again against Sansa's shoulder. He pumped in and out of his northern wife once more, stopping momentarily for Sansa to collect herself. With each thrust, Sansa moved her hips back and sunk her fingernails deep into Daveth's back. Sweat covered both their bodies from the effort.

After nearly 45 minutes of love making, Sansa felt Daveth's manhood starting to swell and twitch inside her as he quickened his pace. She knew what that meant.

"Ngh, Sansa, I'm—!"

Sansa pushed back for more. "Fill me up, ahh!"

Daveth groaned and thrusted hard into Sansa before emptied himself deep into her womb. He barely heard Sansa's whimper under him and arching her back, his manhood twitching as it continued to spurt. When he was done, Daveth withdrew from Sansa and rolled over, placing a hand on her thigh. The Wolf Queen was breathless from her last orgasm as she felt her husband's seed dripping out from between her legs.

They sat there for a while, harsh breathing in the quiet moment until the wind from outside blew into the room—extinguishing all candles in the room—causing both Daveth and Sansa to shiver and covered themselves. After their recent lovemaking, Sansa was now officially tired. Feeling her husband wrapping his arms around her, Sansa felt safe and loved. And given what Daveth had done, she was certain that they'd have more children; even if not now, if Sansa wanted more children, Daveth would give her such.

"Whew!" she wiped her brow. "Wow… You… you were amazing…"

Daveth, now tired himself, held his wife close. "So were you. Seven hells, it's been… a long time since we… did this."

Silence filled the cabin for a while.

"Do you think we woke the kids?" he asked.

Sansa listened closely, but thankfully heard nothing. "No, I don't think so. But if we did wake Lyonel and Cassana by doing… this, then I'm blaming you."

"Very funny," the Young Stag rolled his eyes. "But need I point out that you were enjoying it yourself?"

Sansa playfully smacked Daveth's chest. "You are such a pervert!" she scolded him. "I love you, but you're such a pervert."

Daveth shook his head. "Only because I'm married to the most beautiful woman in the world," his facial feature turned warm, "and is the mother of my children. As far as I'm concerned, this is all I need."

Sansa snuggled against Daveth's neck. "And you and our children are all I'll ever need. Sleep well, dearest."

The Young Stag pecked his wife's head, listening to her quiet breathing; knowing that the Wolf Queen had fallen asleep, Daveth felt his eyelids growing heavy and it wasn't long before sleep took him too.

* * *

**At the Water Gardens…**

* * *

Within the palace a short distance away from Sunspear, the Water Gardens served as a private residence to House Martell. Located on the coast next to the Summer Sea a short distance down the road from the Dornish capital city, pale pink marble paved the gardens and courtyard; terraces overlooked the numerous pools and fountains, shaded by blood orange trees with a triple archway leading to certain mazes. Described as pleasant in autumn, hot days and cool nights, the salt breeze blew in from the sea and the fountains and pools are described as admirable, a relaxing if not beautiful sight to behold.

One of the Dornish traditions still retained to this day since Princess Daenerys Targaryen married Prince Maron Martell in 201 AC was allowing men and women from all stations—highborn nobles to servants, guards and their children—to swim in the pools, beaches and fountains.

At the center of the gardens, Princess Myrcella Baratheon—now almost 19 years old—spent the day with her betrothed Prince Trystane Martell, eldest son and heir to Prince Doran Martell. During her stay in Dorne, Myrcella came to see Dorne as her new home and adapted to the Dornish lifestyle so quickly, but she had actually fallen in love with Trystane; a rare thing in arranged marriages. The inner layer of her halter dress was pink in color and made of lightweight, hand dyed cotton organdy with the cups lightly lined; the outer layer of her dress is goldish-yellow in color and also made from a lightweight with garments and embroidery of a floral nature, hand dyed cotton organdy with a lace up closure in back.

Not only has she matured greatly and became somewhat independent of her family, but Myrcella noticeably grew up to be a lovely young woman—inheriting all of her mother Cersei Lannister's beauty but none of her cruel nature.

She remained still, watching Prince Trystane placing a flower in her hair.

"I'm going to ask him tomorrow," he tells her.

Myrcella, however, looked uncertain. "What if he says no?"

"He won't. You've waited long enough;  _we've_  waited long enough. I want you to be my wife now." Trystane noticed Myrcella looking away from him for a bit. "What's wrong?" he asked, somewhat concerned.

"Do you want to marry me because our families arranged it?" she asked him. "Or, do you—"

Myrcella's words were silenced when Prince Trystane cupped her cheek and kissed her. His action affirmed that he did indeed have true affections for her. Though she was caught off-guard, Myrcella did not protest nor did she pull away. She did, however, reciprocated Trystane's feelings, though for a brief moment she actually did pull away—albeit her cheeks were rather flushed.

"We-we can't," she shook her head. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

"You know why not. Someone will see. Your father, Ser Arys Oakheart…"

"And your brother?"

Myrcella froze.  _'Daveth…'_ She hadn't seen her eldest brother in almost four years since he sent her away to Dorne.

And though she made him promise to write letters, they were relatively few. Initially Myrcella believed Daveth had forgotten the promise he made her, but it was only until she learned about the siege at King's Landing during Renly Baratheon's rebellion and again of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion did Myrcella come to understand why the letters sent to her had been relatively few. She did, however, receive ravens from her sister-in-law Queen Sansa Stark at King's Landing and it was from her that Myrcella worried about her brother's state of mind. She believed he was under a lot of stress and repeatedly asked for inquiries about him.

She often wondered what Daveth must've looked like by now. Considering the last raven Myrcella received entailed the birth of the new royal heirs, she advocated to her betrothed's father, Prince Doran Martell—ruler of Dorne, to request Daveth's presence.

"I…"

Trystane replied, "You are going to be my wife. And I am going to be your husband."

_'Fate preserve me, but you are so stubborn sometimes Trystane,'_  Myrcella thought. But then again, it was Trystane's nature that drew her to him in the first place. Attentive and affectionate, but rather impatient. She loved that about him.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Trystane took her arm in his.

"Come. We are allowed to walk through the gardens together. Shall we?" he said with a hint of Dornish charm.

Walking through the Water Gardens side-by-side, Myrcella looked at Trystane. "How many other girls have you walked through these gardens?" she asked.

Trystane smirked with amusement. "I like the way your eyes go squinty when you're jealous."

Puffing her cheeks, Myrcella shook her head. "They  _do not_  go squinty," she pouted, "and  _you_  didn't answer the question."

Observing the pair from the Water Gardens' balcony was none other than Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and ruler of Dorne. The oldest of three, his siblings were the late Princess Elia and Prince Oberyn the Red Viper. Unlike Oberyn, who was known for his hot-headed and aggressive passion, Doran was pensive, calculating and patient, always waiting and observing before making his move. Whilst Oberyn was free to indulge in the wayward Dornish lifestyle, Doran was raised to be more responsible despite suffering severe gout which confined him to a wheelchair. On the outside, Doran appeared to be stern and strict, sometimes cold. But the Dornish knew that their Prince actually cared about his people and his family; even Myrcella thought of him fondly as a surrogate father.

Beside him stood his personal bodyguard and captain of the Martell guard, Areo Hotah. Originally from Norvos, one of the northern Free Cities, he joined Prince Doran's service along with Doran's Norovoshi wife Lady Mellario (even after her departure) and has remained a trusted servant of the Martells for many years and is renowned for his skill with his halberd.

Also observing Trystane and Myrcella from the balcony was Prince Oberyn Martell, who after returning from Dorne, was still missing several teeth and his lower jaw was yet slightly aligned more to the right due to the injury sustained from Ser Gregor "the Mountain" Clegane. Eating food or drinking fluids was rather difficult for him and Oberyn did have occasional discomfort once and a while. But the prize in the end was worth it as Oberyn returned a hero to the Dornish with the Mountain's head and announced the justice for the murder Elia Martell and her children was meted out.

"Last time I saw her here, she was swimming with two of my girls. Laughing in the sun," Oberyn told his brother.

Doran did not budge. "I know. Tyene and Sarella often speak of Myrcella as a sister, bound in blood if not by blood."

"Never thought I'd see the day when a Lannister and a Martell would make a lovely couple."

Ellaria Sand, Oberyn's paramour, wrapped herself around the Red Viper. "Yet a Lannister almost cost you your life."

"I did say I was going to  _kill_  that, and I did."

Doran looked at Oberyn. "With help, yes, but your hot-heated nature almost got you killed. If it wasn't for one of our own implanted in the Kingsguard, you would have met our sister again and her children. And Dorne would have lost another Martell."

"Your brother—" Ellaria looked furious, perceiving it as an insult.

"You don't have to remind me," Doran cut her off. "Oberyn is my brother long before he was anything to you."

"The whole country would have gone to war—"

Oberyn silenced Ellaria with a kiss, albeit a sloppy one due to his aligned jaw. "It's all right, my love. Dorne loves its people, and our daughters do too. We avenged our family together."

"And we're also lucky the whole country does not decide whether or not we go to war," his brother finalized. "Justice and vengeance often become intertwined in serious cases, most often to the point where it's hard to tell one from the other."

Despite their differences, Doran and Oberyn remain close as ever—even if Ellaria has a difficult time with her paramour's eldest brother sometimes. Dorne had been crying out for justice, some even advocated with going to war… yet Oberyn assured them that all was well after announcing his triumphant victory over the Mountain.

Ellaria sighed with resignation. "If you're content with this Lannister girl eating our food, breathing our air… Then I suppose I'll give her a chance."

"As you should."

"But  _only_  because my Oberyn still lives."

Approaching the trio, Maester Caleotte handed a raven scroll. "Prince Doran, a raven came from King's Landing days ago," he excused himself.

Doran unraveled the piece of paper, and read it. Both Oberyn and Ellaria leaned over, with the Red Viper recognizing the familiar handwriting.

"Well, well, well! Now  _this_  is getting interesting," Oberyn surprisingly exclaimed. "The unexpected Lannister, the Imp, named the new King's Hand! Rather unexpected!"

Ellaria looked taken aback as well. "Well? What does he say?"

"It says the Oathkeeper has decided to accept our invitation," Doran told them, "and is currently on his way here with his family."

Areo Hotah stood tall, his right hand still gripping his halberd. "They'll most likely arrive at Dorne's only main port. Planky Town."

Oberyn observed this. "Then I suppose we should get ready for preparing to welcome our royal guests. No Baratheon ever stepped foot in Dorne before… except for the Oathkeeper's ancestor Orys during the First Dornish War."

"And what is your take on the Usurper's son?" Doran asked. "What are we to expect from Daveth Baratheon when he arrives?"

"Hmmm. Not quite what you would expect from a lad his age."

"Meaning?"

"He might well have the blood of the lion and stag running through his veins, but… One thing I noticed about him when I was Master of Laws was his commitment, what he calls his 'desire' to usher in a 'new golden age'. What's more is that there are most in Westeros who believe he could actually pull it off, considering how quickly he gets results. But the one thing I admire most about him was the promise he kept to Dorne. Apparently the phrase 'you have my word' has a whole new meaning whenever Daveth says it."

"So he's never reneged on his word?" Doran asked skeptically.

"Not once. Not yet anyway."

"Hmm. We'll see when the time comes. See to it that preparations are made."

Oberyn acknowledged his older brother's request and set off with Ellaria Sand, intending to gather the rest of their daughters in the Sand Snakes. No doubt word will spread quickly, with Myrcella being the first to hear word of Daveth's impending arrival. Doran and Areo watched from the balcony as Oberyn spoke with Trystane and Myrcella. Not surprisingly even in the slightest, Doran noticed Myrcella's posture shifted from courteous to nearly bouncing with excitement.

"They make a lovely couple," he told his bodyguard. "A Lannister and a Martell. They have no idea how dangerous that is. Even if things have indeed calmed down in Dorne, such a royal gathering will no doubt bring about unwanted attention. My son, Princess Myrcella… we must still protect them."

"Yes, my Prince," Areo nodded.

Doran looked up at him. "You have not had to use that axe of yours in a very long time. I hope you remember how."

Areo grinned, eager to flex his muscles. "I remember how," he answered with confidence.

Doran nodded and looked across the distance of the Water Gardens. If war has taught him anything in times of peace, it's to always keep his guard up and expect the unexpected. What he was not expecting, however, was that he would eventually be proven right.

Further north, a small ship departing from White Harbor had just set sail with its destination in sight…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit steamy in the first half, but towards the end we're finally introduced to Prince Doran Martell and his bodyguard Areo Hotah. Doran expects trouble at some point and has made the first move to prevent such a thing from possibly derailing the negotiations between Dorne and the Iron Throne. For the last bit, a ship departed from White Harbor. Think it's Locke and Ramsay's dogs? Also, making her return is none other than Princess Myrcella Baratheon—now a full grown young woman! Thoughts? Let me know.


	85. Black Bastard on the Wall

**At Castle Black…**

* * *

For the first time in 14 years, each sworn brother of the Night's Watch gathered in the halls of Castle Black for a Choosing to nominate a candidate to serve as the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Unlike the rest of Westeros, the Night's Watch is one of few institutions that hold elections in choosing their leaders almost similar to the Faith of the Seven's ruling council the Most Devout, the Order of Maesters' Conclave. In contrast, however, only the Night's Watch serves as a true, representative democracy where  _every_  member of the Night's Watch, from the First Ranger and the other high-ranking officers, down to the cooks, and even the lowliest steward who cleans out the chamber pots, has an equal vote when electing a new Lord Commander.

And whoever becomes the new Lord Commander, ultimately decides the fate of the captive wildlings during the Battle of Castle Black apparently.

"Treason! The Night's Watch have always defended the realm from what lies beyond the Wall for more than 8,000 years and we will  _never_  let the wildlings pass through into our lands, no matter how much they plead!" Ser Alliser Thorne called out.

First Builder Yarwyck nodded in agreement.

Jon Snow sat a small table with his friends Grenn, Eddison Tollett and Samwell Tarly. The situation was tense; with the Night's Watch's numbers greatly replenished and enough breathing room, there were some of their sworn brothers who backed Ser Alliser Thorne, Castle Black's Master-at-Arms and acting Lord Commander. Most of them touted his experience during Mance Rayder's wildling army attacked the Wall. Some even supported Ser Denys Mallister, commander of the Shadow Tower.

"Quite the select men to actually volunteer for the post," Grenn rolled his eyes.

"You'd think they'd have learned what we know, seen the things we've seen," Edd agreed.

Jon said nothing. Sitting a few tables across from him was a drunken Joffrey Baratheon, gulping down what appeared to be his fourth or fifth cup of ale. Word had already arrived from the capital of Petyr Baelish's and Cersei Lannister's trial by seven and subsequent execution on charges of treason. Normally Jon would've felt more sympathetic, but Joffrey had become incredibly violent and insubordinate; many of their sworn brothers made numerous complaints about Joffrey's aggressive behavior—only for both to be equally met with verbal reprimands.

"*hic!* Mother…" Joffrey bemoaned bitterly. "Fuckin' broth— *hic!* fuckin' brother. Hope you fuckin' burn in the *hic!* deepest corner of the *hic!* Seven hells…"

Samwell winced a bit, but Edd and Grenn looked at him with equal disgust.

"He's been like this these past four weeks," Grenn noticed.

Stannis Baratheon and his guests were permitted to observing the Night's Watch election on the condition there were no interruption or outside influence affecting the outcome. The fiery Stag of Dragonstone had his arms crossed and never took his eyes off of Joffrey.

_'He should've been dealt with back at King's Landing,'_  he observed.  _'They called him my nephew, but Joffrey shares no blood with me.'_

As Ser Davos and Lady Selyse took their seats to watch the proceedings, but Stannis remained at the back of the hall with his personal guards. Soon enough, every sworn brother of the Night's Watch took their seats as Castle Black's maester Aemon slowly stood up from the Lord Commander's seat at the high table to officiate the vote. A wrinkled, shrunken, very old blind man of 104 years of age, Aemon was originally the second son of King Maekar I Targaryen, a Prince who renounced his claim to the Iron Throne before his older brother Aerion "Brightflame" died and refused the throne in favor of his younger brother Aegon—a sibling he referred to as "Egg". King Aegon of House Targaryen, the Fifth of His Name… who died many years later during the Tragedy at Summerhall and was succeeded by Aemon's nephew the Mad King Aerys II.

_"The gods were cruel when they saw fit to test my vow. They waited until I was old,"_  Maester Aemon once told Jon Snow four years ago.  _"What could I do when the ravens brought the news from the south? The ruin of my house, the death of my family… I was helpless, blind, frail. But when I heard they had killed my brother's son, and his poor son, and the children! Even the little children!"_

_"Who are you?"_

_"My father was Maekar, the First of His Name. My brother Aegon reigned after him when I had refused the throne, and his son… was Aerys… whom they called 'The Mad King.'"_

_"You're Aemon Targaryen."_

_"I am a Maester of the Citadel, bound in service to Castle Black and the Night's Watch. Whatever cruel test the Gods see fit to throw at you, Jon Snow, you'll have to live with whatever choice you make for the rest of your days, as I have."_

Samwell had been taking care of Maester Aemon lately; given his old age and frailty, almost everyone knew that Aemon would inevitably die soon. Even though most of the Night's Watch often disregarded his wise counsel, Maester Aemon was still held in high regards.

"Crowded," Darius Hill uttered. "You'd think we were serving venison stew."

Aemon cleared his throat. "Does anyone wish to speak for candidates before we cast our tokens for the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch?"

Camren Rivers, a bastard of House Darry from the Riverlands, rose from his chair. "I nominate Ser Alliser Thorne! He's not just a knight, but he's a man of true nobility. A veteran of hundreds of battles and defender on the Watch almost his whole life, he was acting commander when the Wall came under attack and led us to victory against the wildlings. Ser Alliser is our one true choice."

"Hear, hear," some of the Night's Watch applauded.

Ser Alliser grinned and looked back at Jon Snow, the bastard he had a social hostile rivalry ever since Jon arrived to swear his vows years ago. What made it worse was how humiliated Alliser was when Jon took command during the Battle of Castle Black when he was wounded in battle. Men cheer and beat on the tables as Alliser nodded at his supporters.

"Is there anyone else?"

One of the sworn brothers from Shadow Tower stood up. "Ser Denys Mallister joined the Watch as a boy and has served loyally longer than any other ranger. Through 10 winters he served. As commander of the Shadow Tower, he kept the wildlings away. We could do no better."

Men, including Jon, Grenn and Edd bang their cups on the table, but the reaction is much weaker.

"If there's no one else, we will begin the voting," Maester Aemon announced. "The triangular tokens count for Ser Alliser Thorne. The square tokens for Ser Denys Mallister. Each brother will—"

Grenn immediately rose sharply. "Wait!"

Every sworn brother, including Jon, Eddison and Samwell, look to Grenn at the back of the room in shock.

"Grenn. Go on."

Jon shakes his head 'no' at Grenn. Ser Davos, Samwell and Eddison were curious; Stannis, meanwhile, looked on in curiosity whereas Seylse frowned at the rude interruption.

"*hic!* Ah, the fearless giant slayer Grenn the Abandoned," Joffrey slurred. "And his trusted *hic!* companions Edd the Dimwit and Sam the Slayer."

The whole room turns and glares at him, including Stannis and his guests.

"What's a wildling *hic!* lover and his friends *hic!* Jon Snow the Bastard," he continued rudely. "Tell me, Piggy, how's your *hic!* lady love, Slayer? *hic!*"

More men frowned; very few chuckled but were silenced. Grenn was red with anger.

Samwell stood up in his friend's defense. "Her name is Gilly," he corrected. "Brother Joffrey knows her quite well. They cowered together in the larder during the battle for the Wall."

Joffrey scowled in fury as the men started laughing at him now. Rising sharply, Joffrey threw his cup across the room but his aim was terrible due to his intoxication.

"Lies!" he screamed.

"A wildling, a baby, and Joffrey the Illborn," Edd chimed in. "I seem to remember that we found him there when the battle was over curled up in the fetal position in a puddle of his own piss."

"SHUT *hic!* UP!"

Even stronger laughter erupted in the room, even Maester Aemon cracked a smile.

"Whilst Joffrey fled with his tail between his legs, hiding with the women and children, Jon Snow was leading," Grenn pointed to Jon.

The room goes quiet. Samwell nodded in agreement. "Ser Alliser fought bravely during the battle, it's true. It's an act of honor that cannot be questioned or dismissed. And when he was wounded, it was Jon who saved the day. He took charge of the Wall's defenses."

Eddison rose from his seat. "Jon Snow killed the Magnar of the Thenns. He went north to deal with Mance Rayder, knowing it would mean certain death. And before that, Jon led the mission to avenge Lord Commander Mormont."

"Mormont himself chose Jon to be his steward. He saw something in Jon and we've seen it all, too. He might be young, but he was the commander we turned to when the night was darkest."

Grenn looked at his friend. "With that, I'm proud to nominate my friend and brother Jon Snow as a candidate for Lord Commander of the Night's Watch!"

Jon blinked and looked across the room as men gave him a strong cheer. He wasn't expecting his name being put forward, almost uncertain what to do. Across from them, Ser Alliser Thorne stood from his seat.

"I can't argue with any of that. But who does Jon Snow want to command? The Night's Watch… or the wildlings?" he argued. "Everyone knows he loved a wildling girl and spoke with Mance Rayder many times," he looked at Stannis. "What would have happened in that tent if the Young Stag's own uncle Stannis Baratheon and his army hadn't come along?"

Stannis remained stoic, yet deeply frowned; believing it to be a slight on his honor that his cavalry rode to decimate the massive wildling army.

"We all saw him put the King-Beyond-the-Wall in a small cell on the condition he was not to be harmed until a new Lord Commander was chosen," he continued. "Do you want to choose a man who has fought the wildlings all his life? Or a man who makes love to them?"

Jon frowned angrily but doesn't respond; the memory of Ygritte's loss was still a fresh wound for him and Ser Alliser rubbed salt on his wounds, and Joffrey smirked in a smug manner. With the sworn brothers trading banter, Maester Aemon rises again.

"It is time. The triangular tokens count for Ser Alliser Thorne, the square tokens for Ser Denys Mallister… and the circular tokens for Jon Snow."

One by one, each sworn brother of the Night's Watch marched in a single-file line to the front of the room to place their selective tokens into a jar. Jon watched as he sipped his ale, but couldn't help but notice Joffrey glaring at him; his face curled in a wicked snarl.

_'He's still upset about what happened down south,'_  he speculated.

What felt like several long twenty minutes, First Builder Yarwyck takes a small hammer and cracks open the jar and begins to count the tokens before stacking them up on the table. Everyone was holding their breath. Denys had a small amount, but Alliser and Jon have the same amount of tokens.

Yarwyck leaned close to Aemon's ear. "There appears to be a tie, Maester."

As the most senior member of Castle Black's leadership, Maester Aemon was now in his capacity to break the tie. With the aid of Yarwyck, Aemon steadily rose from his seat once more and feels each stack of tokens to determine which is which. Albeit he was old and blind, Aemon's other senses were still intact. Taking his own spare token from his sleeve, his hands steadily shook and cast his own vote for Jon Snow.

***CHEERS!***

***APPLAUSE!***

Amidst cheers and laughter, Olly turned and smiles at his mentor. Jon Snow felt as if the wind was knocked out of him in surprise, but smiled as his friends Samwell, Eddison and Grenn clapped the loudest. The men near Alliser, including Joffrey, look angry. The group of men gathered around Mallister, however, was rather content and even waived their hands up in a congratulatory acknowledgment.

"Jon Snow! Jon Snow! Jon Snow! Jon Snow!" the room chanted.

Elected as the 998th Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon took a shaky breath and sees Alliser glaring at him, and lets out a small smile for the first time since he entered the room. With his new position, Jon felt a growing confidence swelling up inside him as he left the room with Olly, Samwell, Grenn and Eddison in tow—walking past Stannis and his attendees _._

_'Maybe I'll be able to settle an everlasting peace,'_  he thought hopefully.

"What are your orders… Lord Commander Snow?" Grenn asked.

Jon shrugged. "Still not used to hearing that," he admitted.

"Yeah, well, you're in charge of the Night's Watch now," Samwell pointed out. "Lots of responsibility."

"And that means a lot of hard choices lay ahead," Edd nodded.

Jon turned to his steward. "Olly, go to my chambers and fetch me Longclaw."

Olly nodded. "At once, Lord Commander."

As the boy left the room, Jon turned to his friends once he was certain they were alone.

"What I'm about to do now… it might divide the Night's Watch. Bitterly."

Samwell looked confused. "What do you mean?"

Jon exhaled, yet remained firm and absolute. "I'm going down to the cells to have a word with Mance Rayder, see what I can do to negotiate peace between us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A brief cameo, but Jon Snow is the new Lord Commander of the Night's Watch and intends to have a private audience with Mance Rayder and Tormund Giantsbane regarding the fate of the wildlings. And Joffrey was not a happy camper and behaved irritably now that he knows what's happened at King's Landing. Now the next chapter will definitely include the face-to-face meeting with Daveth Baratheon and Doran Martell. So stay turned for more updates! Thoughts? Let me know.


	86. Brother-Sister Reunion

**In Dorne…**

* * *

Sailing into the Dornish harbor from the Greenblood River, King Daveth I Baratheon, Queen Sansa Stark and their household attendees had finally arrived in Dorne. The weather was hot, dry and contained a fair certain amount of humidity in the air; as such, some had small beads of sweat trickling down their faces and necks due to the heavy cloth and armor. Sers Lucius Blackmyre and Jaime Lannister slightly squinted their eyes to avoid the sun's rays.

"Seven hells, this place is hot…" Olyvar Frey complained.

Being of the North, Sansa wasn't used to the heat nor had she ever ventured this far south before—yet her primary concern were the babies in her arms, Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana. Acting on maternal instinct, Sansa acted to keep her children cool and hydrated. Lyonel and Cassana stirred, apparently uncomfortable with a new, unfamiliar environment.

"It's okay, little ones," Sansa gently reassured her son and daughter. "We'll be out of the sun soon, don't worry."

Meanwhile, Ariyana Dayne felt a warm breeze flow past her long black hair, sniffing the air in nostalgia.  _'I'm home,'_  she reminisced before turning to the King and Queen. "Welcome to Dorne, Your Graces."

Daveth loosened his collar, adjusted the leather strap around his shoulder which attached his late father's war hammer to his back; his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer remained sheathed at his waist. Despite feeling hot and somewhat thirsty, the Young Stag was certain of the objective at hand.

"You ever been to Dorne, Ser Lucius?" Olyvar asked.

Lucius didn't move. "One time," he said.

"What about you, Ser Jaime?"

Jaime shook his head. "No."

"Ariyana—"

"I was born here, Frey," she cut him off. "A rather dumb question to ask me."

"Is it true that the Dornish are crazy?"

Ariyana frowned. "Clarify."

"I've heard from Oberyn that all they want to do is fight and f—"

Sansa quickly turned her head and cast a long, hard death stare in Olyvar's direction, prompting him to clamp his mouth shut when he noticed the twins in her arms.

"Don't even think about using such foul language in front of the children," she hissed.

Olyvar waved his hands. "I-I'm sorry, Your Grace!" he apologized. "I… I was just curious about Dornish culture. It's just… I-I've… never left the Twins before."

"You'll have time to ask them soon enough," Lucius pointed to the port. "Seems they've been expecting our arrival."

Indeed, standing at the pier stood Prince Doran Martell, his brother Prince Oberyn Martell, his brother's paramour Ellaria Sand and three of his nieces birthed by Ellaria, all of whom were fathered by Oberyn. Daveth was certain to have some questions about why Oberyn abruptly resigned his post on the Small Council and left without informing him first; but that could wait for a while. He noticed the Red Viper's jaw angled in the opposing direction and retained a slight discoloration in his cheek. No less as a consequence of getting punched by the Mountain.

"We're here," the Pentoshi merchant captain pulled the boats into the harbor.

Stepping up, Daveth raised his arms out to Sansa to transfer one of the twins over to him. Cautiously placing his right arm underneath Cassana's head, he brought his arms closely and brought his daughter up to him as Ariyana and Olyvar assisted Sansa onto the docks, with Lucius and Jaime close behind.

 

"Well, well. We met again, Oathkeeper," Oberyn greeted them.

Daveth nodded. "Prince Oberyn," he returned. "You left King's Landing without saying so much as a word to anyone. I trust it was nothing serious?"

"It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. You kept your end of the bargain, it's true, but I had to report back to my brother in Sunspear."

"Still, a head's up would've been nice." He turned to the Prince of Dorne. "Prince Doran," he greeted.

Doran Martell remained seated in his wheelchair. "Welcome to Dorne, Your Grace. On behalf of House Martell, we thank you for accepting our invitation. I trust your journey here was not a weary one?"

"Not at all. In fact it was an anticipated moment most of us at court had been waiting for."

"Your country is quite lovely, Prince Doran," Sansa complimented. "Exotic, exciting… the Dornish must be very proud."

"Oh?" Oberyn noted. "Well if that's what you believe of us, then perhaps we should schedule a touring of Dorne one day so you could be…  _fully_  acquainted with the rest of us."

"One day, but that could wait until the negotiations are concluded," Doran said.

Sansa raised a curious eyebrow.  _'Negotiations? Daveth, is that why we're really here?'_

Areo Hotah stepped forward. "As a precaution, the Prince has asked that you relinquish your weapons to us. He wouldn't want a rather… unfortunate incident to occur in our lands."

Daveth looked at the tall, halberd-wielding captain of the Martell guard. Of his Kingsguard, only Ser Jaime Lannister was the one who appeared visibly uncomfortable at being stuck in a distant land surrounded by a noble house that despises his own without having a weapon to defend himself or others. The Young Stag gave a brief nod.

"Very well," he spoke. "I'll give mine as a gesture of good faith, but I'm afraid that I must insist that my Kingsguard be permitted to keep theirs for security purposes."

Areo frowned, gripping his halberd. "The Prince insists—"

"Captain. It's fine."

Turning to Prince Doran, Areo reluctantly steps aside as Daveth hands over his iron spiked warhammer and Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer to the Dornish guardsmen—noticing with some amusement at the sight of how some were actually straining under the weight of the Baratheon warhammer as they carried them off. Ser Lucius nodded his head in approval as the Kingsguards kept their weapons locked in their sheaths; it was a small compromise, but a fair one nonetheless.

Doran turned to Ellaria. "Have our handmaidens prepare a bath for the Queen."

"You're very kind to offer, Prince Doran," Sansa curtsied, "but I must see to my son and daughter before—"

"We'll get them settled in," Ellaria offered. "Trust me. I've got four children of my own with Oberyn so we've more experience in raising children."

Sansa was rather uncertain, but opted to follow Ellaria Sand and a dozen Dornish handmaidens to bathe her twins before taking a bath herself. The Dornish climate was a rather hot one, and both Lyonel and Cassana were fussing about—whether for attention, to cool off or for food. Either way, Sansa looked back at Daveth who nodded his head motioning her to continue on ahead of him. Once out of earshot, Doran Martell looked at Daveth more closely as the assembly began their stroll towards the Water Gardens.

"Your sister Princess Myrcella has been asking for you lately," he mentioned.

Ser Jaime watched as his nephew tensed up a bit.

"I know. I haven't seen her in over three years. Has she been giving you trouble?"

Oberyn chimed in. "Not at all. She's looked uncertain at first, but your sister's adjusted to Dorne quite nicely."

"That's… good to know. I want to believe Myrcella's been happy here."

"You have my word," the Red Viper nodded. "We don't hurt little girls in Dorne."

Daveth glanced at him.  _'If only that were true; everywhere in the world, they hurt little girls.'_

"Would you like to see her?" Doran asked, catching the Young Stag off-guard. "The talks can wait at least for another day until you've at least settled in."

"You'd do that?" he let word slip before recomposing himself. "I mean…"

"Oberyn will show you the way."

The Red Viper led Daveth, Olyvar, Jaime, Lucius and Ariyana in the other direction away from Doran and the Martell guardsmen. "The Water Gardens are this way," he implored.

As the royal host followed Oberyn Martell through the catacombs of the Dornish vineyards and swimming pools, the Young Stag felt as if his nerves were becoming unsettled at the realization of actually reuniting with his sister Princess Myrcella Baratheon. Indeed, it had been many years since they last saw each other. Daveth had planned to make it up to his sister for not being able to keep in touch with her as he promised. There was so much he wanted to tell her.

His uncle Ser Jaime, on the other hand, continued eyeing his nephew whilst on the way to reunite with his "niece". Jaime knew Daveth would be a man of his word and keep her true parentage a secret, yet he also understood that there would eventually be a time when some people would start talking about it.

* * *

**At the Water Gardens…**

* * *

  

Converging on the Water Gardens with Oberyn Martell leading them, Daveth adjusted his collar—still not used to the Dornish heat. Indeed, only he, Jaime and Lucius were somewhat bothered by it, but not Ariyana. Being the only Dornish in the Kingsguard, Ariyana was more adaptable to her homeland's climate. Even so, the Young Stag was led into the Water Gardens before ultimately stopping in his tracks.

"Here we are," Oberyn announced.

Daveth felt as if the wind was knocked out of him; before his very eyes he saw his sister Myrcella snogging with the young man he assumed to be Trystane Martell.

"Well, well. The Princess seems to have made herself at home," Lucius quipped.

Jaime and Daveth both nearly frowned, but the Young Stag redirected his gaze at the scene. Myrcella had grown into a beautiful young woman, having inherited their mother Cersei's looks but none of Cersei's cruel personality. Last time Daveth saw Myrcella, she was but a girl; looking upon her now… the Young Stag found himself struggling to find the words.

"There she is…" Daveth reminisced almost breathlessly.

Oberyn almost seemed to detect his brief sense of hesitation. "You sound conflicted. Don't you even want to say hello?"

"It's… not conflict, per se; though I suppose it's a bit hard to accept the fact that Myrcella's a woman grown now."

"And that makes you sad?" asked Lucius.

"Not in that way," he denied. "Seven hells… this is harder than I thought. She's got a new home now. A new life. Has been for years. Given everything that's happened, I'll just complicate that for her."

Lucius, shaking his head, gripped his King's shoulder. "Listen to me, lad. We know you'd never intentionally jeopardize your siblings' future or livelihood. Princess Myrcella doesn't need to know any of the details, but would it really be so difficult for her to know she has an older brother who loves her? A brother who practically raised her?"

The Young Stag's head spun with debate; whether or not to go. His face turned, glancing at his feet before returning his eyes towards Myrcella. "No, I suppose not…" he confessed reluctantly.

Oberyn joined in, giving Daveth a nudge forward. "It's all right, Oathkeeper. Talk to her."

Daveth inhaled through his nostrils and out his mouth. "All right. Here we go," he readied himself. "Ser Jaime? I'll need you to back me up here."

Not understanding exactly why his own nephew would call out to him for reinforcements, Jaime Lannister accompanied Daveth through the Water Gardens to approach Myrcella and Trystane. He noticed with slight amusement at noticing the fact that his own nephew was more nervous than he was, but then again… so was Jaime.

Daveth approached with Jaime at his side, mentally preparing himself for the long-awaited reunion. Luckily for the two, neither Myrcella nor Tyrstane heard their approach. Stopping in front of them, the Young Stag stood tall.

"'Cella," he called out.

Myrcella and Trystane immediately stop kissing and turned around. Myrcella's ears perked up at the familiar nickname she was called during her childhood; her eyes widened in surprise and slowly released herself from Trystane's embrace.

"Daveth? I-is it really you?" Myrcella asked in disbelief.

Daveth looked down briefly before returning to meet his sister's gaze. In turn, Myrcella recognized her eldest brother standing before her. Last time she saw him he was clean shaven and stoic, but now here he was bearing noticeable scars and had grown physically stronger. Both Myrcella and Daveth had changed over the years, though they were still able to recognize one another.

Giving a brief nod, Daveth confirmed his presence was real. Myrcella felt a wave of emotion wash over her at first before her face broke into a huge smile and rushed over to embrace her brother, catching him momentarily by surprise. Daveth glanced down at Myrcella and ran his fingers through her lush long blonde hair.

"I've missed you, big brother," Myrcella sighed in his chest.

"I missed you too," Daveth replied.

"You looked different when I left. You had… less scars."

"I know. But look at you. You've grown into a lovely young woman."

"And you look like an old man."

Daveth blinked. "Wha…?"

Myrcella giggled cheekily.

Lucius laughed. "She's got you there, Your Grace."

"Laugh it up, Ser Lucius," he grumbled sarcastically.

Even Jaime found his "niece's" Myrcella quick-witted barb amusing. Just as Tyrion was the only one of Lord Tywin's three children to inherit his keen mind, both Daveth and Myrcella were the only two of Cersei's four children to inherit the famous intellect running in the family – meaning that Myrcella is essentially the intellect of Tywin or Tyrion put in the beautiful body of a young, teenaged Cersei; Daveth was quite similar, though his intellect was put in the powerful body of a young, stronger Robert Baratheon.

Once Myrcella was done with her chuckle, she cleared her throat and decided to introduce her betrothed to her brother.

"Allow me to introduce my intended, Prince Trystane of House Martell," she introduced him. "Trystane, this is my older brother, King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name."

Trystane approached and knelt to one knee. "It's an honor to finally meet you in-person, Your Grace. Indeed, I am Trystane Martell, son of Prince Doran Martell and heir to Dorne," he spoke politely. "Your sister speaks highly of you."

Daveth grew more serious.  _'At least the boy knows his manners.'_  "You may rise."

Trystane stands up.

"This is Ser Lucius Blackmyre and my uncle Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard," Myrcella pointed out.

"Excellent. Good to meet you," Jaime said shaking hands with Trystane.

Myrcella noticed Olyvar staring at her. "And you are…?" she asked curiously, having never met this stranger before.

"Oh! Ah, um. I'm Olyvar of House Frey, my Princess," he introduced himself. "I'm His Grace's squire."

"A squire? Well, that's a new one."

The heir to Dorne glanced to his left and saw a familiar face. "Aunt Ari?" he acknowledged. "You're in the Kingsguard too?"

Ariyana nodded. "Good to see you too, Trystane. And yes, the King appointed me to his Kingsguard some years ago."

"Good to see that Dorne gets a voice in the Kingsguard again," he noted.

Daveth looked at Ariyana. "I take it you've been acquainted with young Prince Trystane?"

She nodded. "Of course, Your Grace. 'Aunt Ari' was what he always called me when I was his father's ward."

Embarrassed, Trystane scratched the back of his head. "Ahem!" he cleared his throat. "I'm sure you all must be tired from the long journey here. Please, let us go inside. House Martell extends to you our hospitality."

Daveth nodded as Myrcella looked up at him.

"Please tell me you brought the twins with you," her face lighted up.

"They are," he answered. "Sansa's giving Lyonel and Cassana a bath right now. They'll be joining us momentarily."

Myrcella nearly squealed. "Oooh! I can't wait to see their little faces!"

_'Ah… apparently she's been in touch with Sansa.'_

"How's it like? Being a father?"

Daveth shrugged. "A lot harder than you think."

As Trystane and Myrcella led Daveth, Olyvar, Jaime and Lucius inside the private leisure palace, Ariyana stayed behind with Prince Oberyn. Once they were certain Daveth was out of earshot, Oberyn turned to Ariyana.

"You're certain about your reports on this boy?" he asked her. "My house was gracious enough to take you in after your mother and uncle died."

"I know, Prince Oberyn," she replied.

"So, what will you tell my brother?"

"I'll tell him the truth." Ariyana hands over a rolled up parchment sealed with purple wax. "Here's what I've been able to gather on the Young Stag. It could be useful during the negotiations."

Oberyn noticed. "Then let's hope our gambit pulls off."

As the Red Viper leaves to inform Doran, Ariyana is left in the Water Gardens alone.

_'I'm sorry for the deception, Your Grace,'_  she somewhat lamented,  _'but it was necessary. All of us in Dorne needed to know more about you first.'_

* * *

**Somewhere in the Dornish desert…**

* * *

Locke along with the Bastard's Boys and the Bastard's girls had already helped themselves to whatever wildlife they were able to hunt along the Dornish coastline. Snakes, fish, whatever they could catch. The wanted fugitives chewed on the small amount of meat as the vicious hounds barked and snapped at each other fighting over scraps; Ramsay Snow's advice of their aggression flaring up upon their arrival in Dorne.

"Vicious bitches," he observed, cooking a snake while watching the Dreadfort's kennelmaster Ben Bones reigning in the hounds.

"Down girls. Down!" he shouted.

The more common a large, muscular, black-haired dog bit down hard onto a bone contested by a smaller, more slender brown-haired dog. The Bastard's girls were indeed a ferocious bunch even when hungry; but this small meal did little to satisfy their hunger.

"Be a shit way to die, eaten alive by one of those bitches," Damon Dance-for-Me said indicating Grey Jeyne.

"There is always shittier ways to die," Skinner noted. "Nothing's worse than having your back against the wall and an entire continent huntin' ya."

Locke spat. "Don't care how a man prefers his method of death, so long as the winner reaps the reward."

"How disappointing," Sour Alyn noted. "Thought you'd want an exciting life not a boring hunt."

In a fury Locke punched Sour Alyn, startling the hounds and caused them all to begin barking loudly.

"Quiet! Shush!" Ben Bones ordered.

A horse neighs in the distance. Locke looks around and spots a group of Dornish riders approaching.

"How many do you count?" he asks.

Damon Dance-for-Me observed. "Four," he answered.

"We can take them."

"The hounds are always hungry for more meat. Figured we'd give 'em more before we march on the move again."

One of the riders notices them. "Halt!" The rider holds up his hand and the party stops, having spotted Locke and his men. "Who are you? Why are you here?"

Locke was running out of patience.

"Swords in the sand! Now!"

"Over my dead body," he growled.

They pull out their swords. Damon Dance-for-Me puts his down in the sand, and then flings a knife into the throat of a rider. He then kills another, stabbing him and knocking him off of his horse. A third charges him, and Locke knocks him off of his horse as well. However, he survives. The Bastard's girls barked and lunged forth, clamping their jaws tightly around the fallen Dornish rider and tear him to pieces.

"AAAAAHHH!" he screamed in terror before his throat was torn out.

Outnumbering the Dornish riders 15 to 4, Ben Bones unleashes all the hounds on their attackers.

"Rip 'em, girls! Rip 'em!" he ordered.

One by one, each of the vicious hounds attacked the riders, one of whom is revealed to be larger than Locke. Surrounded on all sides, each of the Dornish riders are pushed back down a hill and falls off their horses before each are individually mauled by the hounds. Ignoring the sickening sounds of the hounds chewing meat and bones crunching and blood spurting everywhere across the sand, Locke picks up each of the Bastard's Boys' fallen adversaries' weapons along with their Dornish attire for disguise.

"This should get us inside," he examined.

Damon Dance-for-Me wiped his face of the blood. "So… where to now?" he asks.

Locke's face scrunched and readily sharpened his blade. "Sunspear. Abduct the Princess, and if we spot the Oathkeeper… kill him. Leave no witnesses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a while guys, but lately I've been called back into work so uploading each chapter might take a while. Besides that we've got a brother-sister reunion, a Kingsguard keeping a hidden secret and Locke finds his way into Dorne—potentially diverting from the original plan and plotting to carry out an assassination attempt. What are your opinions on the viper and stag's first encounter and what of the secret Ariyana's kept hidden to herself that only Oberyn himself knows about? Think it'll affect her standing in the Kingsguard? Thoughts? Let me know.


	87. Baratheon-Martell Peace Talks: Phase 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When you play the Game of Thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."  
> —Cersei Lannister

**In the Water Gardens' main apartments…**

* * *

Daveth and his uncle Ser Jaime were being led into one of the many rooms in the Water Gardens' apartments by the Martell captain of the guard Areo Hotah. It was proving to be a long two days since their arrival in Dorne and the negotiations between the Iron Throne and the ruling House Martell of Dorne were set to begin at any moment. Both men were dressed in a long Dornish cotton tunic, gold robe with drawstring pants, and a gilded bronze leather wrap belt around the waist for the occasion. The Young Stag didn't look comfortable in this new attire, yet kept his mouth shut.

_'Gold was never my color to begin with,'_  he referred to his clothes.

Jaime looked at his nephew. "Gold doesn't suit you," he pointed out.

Daveth rolled his eyes. "Manners, uncle. Remember we're guests in someone else's home."

"Be grateful that Prince Doran has agreed to hear you out," Areo said. "Had it been someone else like the Lannisters representing the crown, well… Let's just say that your family isn't well-liked in Dorne."

"I'm well aware of the lingering hostilities between House Martell and House Lannister," the Young Stag countered. "But I'm the one representing the crown, not any of my relatives."

"You'd worry that we might try something?"

"Both sides might suspect the other of duplicity. If I indeed wanted to try anything, then we will have accomplished nothing."

Areo turned to Jaime. "And what of you, Lannister?"

"Not the way I would've said it," he replied, "but that's one way of putting it."

The three men kept walking until they arrived at their destination; within the Martell court there was a display of a total amount of three couches and chairs, with Princes Doran and Oberyn Martell sitting or standing at the main sofa, Ellaria Sand sitting next to Oberyn, Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ariyana Dayne standing guard at the side of a sofa across from Princess Myrcella and Prince Trystane.

"Prince Doran," Daveth acknowledged. "Oberyn."

"We're glad you could join us, brother," Myrcella greeted.

"Forgive us. We started without you," Doran said. "Please, sit."

Daveth sat down on the sofa across from Trystane and Myrcella; both Lucius and Ariyana nodded as Jaime looked at his 'niece.' The dress she was wearing bared more skin that the ones she originally wore back in King's Landing.

"Princess Myrcella," Jaime greeted.

Myrcella looked up at him. "Uncle."

"That's… a lovely dress."

"You don't like it?"

"You must be cold."

"Not at all," she shook her head. "The Dornish climate agrees with me."

"Take a seat, Ser Jaime," Daveth gestured to his uncle.

Jaime turned to his nephew, shaking his head as he sat next to him.

"Will the Wolf Queen be joining us?" Oberyn implored.

"Sansa will be here at any—"

On que, Queen Sansa Stark had arrived with Shae and Brella, each of them carried with them the royal twins Lyonel and Cassana. Sansa had just had her bath so her red hair looked a bit moist, indicating it was still in the middle of drying. She looked uncomfortable in her dress; a refined golden attire – soft fabric which showed more skin with light material unafraid to almost fall off the shoulders and two necklaces around her neck, she felt as if her skin was exposed than usual as she was a daughter of the North. Sansa was more used to the cold climate, not the heat. Myrcella looked up at Sansa and rose from her seat.

"Sister-in-law," she greeted, giving Sansa a warm hug.

Sansa returned the gesture. "It is good to see you again after so many years, Princess Myrcella. We missed you at court."

"I missed you all, as well," Myrcella looked at the twins and nearly lost it. "Oooh, my!" she squealed, barely able to contain her excitement. "A-are they…?"

"My son and daughter, Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana Baratheon," Sansa confirmed.

"Why hello, little ones. It's me, your auntie 'Cella."

Myrcella poked the twins' cheeks; Lyonel and Cassana both giggled and patted their aunt's face. Sansa smiled at her children's act of affection with their paternal aunt. Jaime observed this, a rather blank expression on his face made visibly apparent.

"Perhaps we should get underway," Doran cleared his throat.

Myrcella and Sansa returned to their seat.

"Never thought we'd expect a Lannister to come to Dorne," Ellaria said, referring to Jaime. "Why follow the Young Stag here?"

Jaime sighed with exasperation. "I'm a member of the Kingsguard, assigned to protect the King himself—who as you know by now is my nephew," he pointed out. "Also, I preferred to look out for the safety of my niece, Princess Myrcella."

"Where His Grace goes, the Kingsguard follows suit," Ser Lucius explained.

"Ah yes, Ser Lucius the Bull of House Blackmyre," Doran noted, "the man whose strategies helped bring down Maelys the Monstrous and extinguished the Blackfyre bloodline on the Stepstones."

"It might've been one of my battle plans, but it was our sworn brother Ser Barristan the Bold himself who delivered the final blow," he corrected.

Oberyn looked at him. "I understand that you were also acquainted with our uncle in the Kingsguard, Prince Lewyn Martell."

Lucius nodded. "I did. One of the finest men I've ever met. I fought with him at the Battle of the Trident many years ago."

Doran turned to look at Daveth. "We understand you were also responsible for avenging him."

"And how is that?" he asked.

"Prince Lewyn was slain by Lyn Corbray, lad," the old Kingsguard explained, "but he was already wounded before the final duel."

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "I did not know that."

"Why would you? We mostly tend to keep such deep personal matters to ourselves," Doran explained. "Even so, we are somewhat pleased that our family has been… mostly avenged."

"Mostly?"

Doran, Oberyn and Ellaria exchanged glances before looking at the Young Stag. A servant arrives and sets down food and drink before the royal guests.

"Do you partake in wine?" the Red Viper asked.

Daveth shook his head. "I don't drink on a regular basis, if that's what you mean. Only on social occasions when protocol requires it. Too much tends to dull the senses; makes a man act rather foolish."

"That's the point."

"Ariyana tells me that she heard you mentioning that it would make you look and sound more like your father, the late King Robert Baratheon," Doran mentioned.

_'Now that was a bit too personal.'_ The Young Stag set down his cup, turning his head to look at Ariyana. "Really?" he asked suspiciously. "What else did she tell you about me?"

Ariyana said nothing.

"Well? Something to say?"

Sansa looked at Ariyana. "Ariyana… what did you do?" she beseeched.

Ariyana sighed, apparently deciding to tell the truth. "Forgive me, Your Grace. But I've been sending letters to Sunspear long before I joined you, an important mission I was told."

"What was the content of those letters?" Daveth asked, frowning disappointingly.

"Information."

"Information about what?"

Doran and Oberyn exchanged glances, nodding at each other—knowing full well where this conversation was going.

"Dorne didn't know anything about you personally. We've only heard of you by reputation," she explained. "You were an anomaly to us. So we needed someone to get close to the royal family to ascertain the truth."

"And so the Martells sent you?"

Ariyana gave a brief nod. "It was during the rebellion of your uncle Lord Renly Baratheon. I owed Prince Doran since my mother and uncle died, Your Grace. I had nowhere else to go."

"When you ascended the Iron Throne," Oberyn brought up. "The Battle of Blackwater Bay. When you were married. Your destruction of the Iron Islands."

That did little to ease the Young Stag's growing frown. He felt betrayed. "So you felt it was okay to spy on me?"

"Your Grace…"

"Why hide that?" he felt his temper slowly rise. "What else are you hiding?"

"I have nothing for you," she insisted.

Daveth turned to Doran. "If there's to be any alliance between us, if they're ever to work, I need to know if I can trust you; because if this is how we start the negotiations between our two houses, Prince Doran, then I'm deeply disappointed."

Doran shook his head. "I doubt it is fair to blame Ariyana Dayne for simply doing what I asked her to do for the people of Dorne. Besides, our association is new. Would you trust me with information that puts your house's future at risk?"

"I already placed a lot on the line to make this work," he countered. "So what could my family hope to gain by simply lying to you now?"

Ellaria sneered. "You have the Baratheon name and Lannister blood," she said. "They weren't particularly welcome in Dorne—"

"I do look like my father, mother or grandfather to you?"

Silence filled the room, until…

"*Waah! Waah! Waah!*"

Both Lyonel and Cassana started crying at the heated tone of their father's voice, indicating they were being somewhat frightened by Daveth. Sansa immediately stood up from her seat to tend to her children, rocking and cradling them—doing her absolute best to calm them down; even with Myrcella's assistance, it only did much to ease the twins. Daveth looked around, trading glances between Ariyana, Ellaria, Oberyn and Doran Martell. Trystane, meanwhile, remained silent—unsure of what to make.

Daveth shook his head and stood up, adjusting his collar as he worked to recompose himself. "We'll be taking a brief recess until things settled down. For now I can't seem to trust anyone in light of recent events. Once the air has been cleared, then we'll talk properly."

"Daveth—" Sansa called out.

Without saying a word, Daveth walked out of the meeting room in haste. Judging by his posture, the Young Stag was understandably angry at the deception of one of his own Kingsguard confessing to having spied on him and the Martells grilling into him—whether it was his own heritage or past actions on military campaigns. The first round of peace talks sputtered and was delayed. Lyonel and Cassana still wailed despite Shae and Brella's attempts at calming them.

Sansa looked at Ariyana, her eyes filled with disappointment. "We trusted you, Ariyana. How could you do this to him? Hasn't His Grace been through enough already?" she reprimanded.

Surprisingly, Ariyana couldn't bring herself to look the Wolf Queen in the eyes. She wouldn't blame her; ever since her arrival to King's Landing, the Sword of the Morning was embraced by the royal court with open arms… and yet they knew nothing about the plot. When Ariyana and House Martell hoped to use this as a way of beginning a more open dialogue, they were not expecting this sort of reaction from the Young Stag.

"I protected you. Fought for you."

"The Baratheons are rather known for their… mercurial tempers when they get angry," Jaime pointed out. "Once he's calmed down, he'll be back for the talks. Daveth knows that he's come too far just to back out now."

Lucius nodded somewhat. "His Grace might not be like most of his Baratheon or Lannister relatives, he still doesn't take kindly to any of his inner circle deceiving him."

"This was not an outcome we were expecting," Doran examined. "Yet he said he 'can't trust anyone in light of recent events.' What did he mean by that?"

Before Sansa could say anything, Oberyn blurted out.

"His mother and grandfather are dead."

Jaime frowned at being reminded of those two losses; Myrcella, on the other hand, was stricken with shock. Her eyes widened and stunned, the young Princess felt as if the wind was kicked out of her.

"Mother, grandfather… They're what? Dead?" she spoke up. "How?"

"Dear girl, your mother was charged for committing treason," Oberyn explained. "Instead of ascertaining the truth in a court hearing, Cersei instead demanded a trial by seven," he pointed to his injuries. "A trial she lost and was later executed for."

_"I told you no one walks away from me,"_  Cersei's voice ran through Jaime's head.  _"You are no son of mine."_

"Lord Tywin, on the other hand," the Red Viper continued, "was assassinated… by his own daughter's minions."

Myrcella looked uncertain, but during her stay in Dorne she learned to truly thrive and determine whenever someone was being truthful or deceitful. She feels closer to the Martells now than she does to the Lannisters. And the Martells did not lie to her about this; being removed from Cersei and her family for so long made Myrcella realize what a  _normal_  and loving family is like and realized that her own mother Cersei had long ignored her well-being. Her thoughts dwelled on her family's loss… to her own brother's well-being.

"How… What about Daveth?" she implored.

Sansa looked somewhat saddened, unsure of how to answer her sister-in-law. "I… don't know what to say, Myrcella. A lot has changed over the last few years; fate has not been kind to him."

"Will he be all right?"

"I'm uncertain," the Wolf Queen answered honestly.

"Well, we've got to go check on him. King or no, he's still my brother."

Doran sighed and massaged his temple. "Very well. The negotiations can wait until His Grace collects himself. Oberyn, who do you have close by near the King?"

"Three of my daughters should be coming back from their adventures with that Frey boy," Oberyn said. "With any luck, they should be here by midday."

"Then let's hope it's sooner rather than later. We still have much to discuss."

* * *

**Somewhere on the beach…**

* * *

  

On the beaches of Dorne stood a small golden tent, casting a shadow in which used to guard inhabitants from the blazing sun. Within the area were three young Dornish women Olyvar Frey accompanied. Three of the eight famous (or infamous) Sand Snakes, bastard daughters of Prince Oberyn Martell, honed their skills.

The eldest among them was Obara Sand, a formidable warrior and the most overtly martial of the Sand Snakes. Dressed in a more masculine style than her sisters, Obara always wore leather armor—even when not in combat; her robes greatly resemble the ones her father wears. Obara inherited Oberyn's martial prowess, particularly his skill with a traditional Dornish spear, and is staunchly disciplined to not overtly display her emotions.

The second was Nymeria Sand, daughter of an eastern noblewoman from Yi Ti and has the most refined appearance – though still incorporating leather armor and riding pants. Being the most reserved and calculating of her sisters, Nymeria tends to hold off with her 8-foot long bullwhip and analyze her opponents to calculate a more efficient means of defeating them whenever she found her enemy's weak points. She is also the more recognizable as she is named after the legendary warrior-queen Nymeria of the Rhoynar who led her people's migration to Dorne and united her people with House Martell 1,000 years ago and incorporated much of the Rhoynish culture and customs into Dornish society.

And lastly, the third was Tyene Sand, eldest daughter of her father Prince Oberyn Martell's paramour Ellaria Sand. Although she feigns being soft-spoken and childlike, she mostly deploys this as a deceptive tactic to keep her enemies off guard as she is just as fierce as her older sisters if not more impetuous. Tyene basically wears the same Dornish woman's dress as Nymeria does, but more revealing with side cutouts and a more aggressive X-shaped leather piece in the front, symbolically more aggressive. In combat, Tyene deploys twin daggers with a snake motif infamously coated with lethal poisons so that even a small scratch may prove deadly if not treated. Tyene is quick on the draw and can move so quickly before even her older sisters can restrain her.

Olyvar rode his horse on the sandy shores, his eyes trailing up and down Tyene's figure which she easily noticed.

"You like what you see?" she teased.

"Can't help it, my dear fair maiden," he flirted. "I've seen quite a few women in the Seven Kingdoms during my time with the King, but Dornish women are the most beautiful women in the world."

"Thank you."

Obara scoffed. "He said  _Dornish_  women, not you."

Tyene raised an eyebrow. "Tell me," she mocked feeling hurt, "am I not  _the_  most beautiful woman you've ever seen?"

The Frey squire blushed. "Th- _the_ most gorgeous…"

"Oh, get a room you two!" Nymeria lectured.

Tyene impulsively stuck her tongue out of her mouth, directing it at her two half-sisters as a response to their taunts.

Upon climbing over a sandy hill, Nymeria looked across the distance and noticed a faint person lying on his back in what appeared to be a pool of his own blood.

"Someone's here," she called out.

Kicking the side of their hoses, the quadrio rode to get a closer look. Once they got close enough, Olyvar's face scrunched in appalling disgust. It was the same Pentoshi merchant captain that accompanied the royal host with them to Dorne on the  _King Robert's Warhammer_  several days ago. He was covered in scorpions, missing a few fingers, half his left ear and lips was bitten off, both his legs were broken and he looked as if someone or something had mauled him.

"I know him," Olyvar examined.

Obara looked suspicious. "Do you now?"

"He was with us when we arrived at Planky Town days ago. Who could've done such a thing?"

The man gurgled and gagged, coughing up his own blood as he slowly reached his hand out as if pleading for help.

"Blurah… gcagh… *cough, cough!*"

Olyvar knelt down. "What happened, ser? Who did this to you?" he asked concerned.

Gripping the squire tightly, the Pentoshi merchant captain uttered. "Man… *cough cough!* scar along right eye… pack of dogs… bushy beard… X-shaped red man… I *cough cough!*"

Before he could utter anything else, the man's eyes rolled to the back of his head and loosened his grip before finally going limp. Olyvar examined the man more closely and determined that he was dead.

_'Poor soul. What a horrible way to die,'_  he thought.

Obara remained indifferent. "He wouldn't have survived anyway," she said bluntly, drinking a flask of water.

"Even if we did anything, it wouldn't have made a difference," added Nymeria. "His injuries were too severe. Still even by Dornish standards, this method of torture is horrendous."

Olyvar looked lost in thought. "Tell me, are there any particular breed of dogs in Dorne?"

Tyene shook her head. "Not that comes to mind. We have no dogs in Dorne. Why?"

Olyvar again placed his fist under his chin, thinking hard.

"Even if there was, no outsiders would've last long in Dorne should they try anything," Obara noted. "When I was a child, Oberyn came to take me to court. I'd never seen this man, and yet he called himself my father. My mother wept, said I was too young, and a girl.  
Oberyn tossed his spear at my feet and said, 'Girl or boy, we fight our battles. But the Gods let us choose our weapons.' My father pointed to the spear, and then to my mother's tears."

Spinning her spear around, she planted the pommel of her spear deep into the sand.

"We've all made our choices, sister," Nymeria said.

Tyene looked at the dead Pentoshi. "He said something about a man with a bushy beard. Pack of dogs…."

"It appears we have an assassin on the loose in Dorne," Obara concluded.

"Scar along the right eye, bushy beard, X-shaped red man… Who could—?" Olyvar uttered quietly before his eyes widened. "Wait, wait! I know who speaks of!"

The three Sand Snakes turned to the Frey squire.

"Well?" Nymeria asked.

Olyvar turned to them. "We've got to get back to the others! We've got to warn Prince Doran and the King!"

"Who are you so frightened of?"

"It's not who I'm frightened of, more like our assassin has a hell of a huge chip on their shoulder."

"And that concerns us how…?"

"Because I've seen how these people work up close during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. They leave no witnesses. If they're after King Daveth, then chances are they'll try to get rid of the Martells just to cover their tracks!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the first phase of the negotiations went south after some startling revelations were unfolded. Upon learning that his own Kingsguard Ariyana Dayne spied on him on behalf of House Martell, Daveth stormed off to collect his thoughts and cool down—putting the negotiations on hold. The Martells and royal host did take a moment to discuss some things, yet even Prince Doran Martell understands that Daveth must return to the meeting room in order to proceed with the peace talks. Myrcella now knows the fate of her mother and grandfather, yet is more concerned about her brother. And the Sand Snakes are introduced at the ending with Olyvar Frey hinting to having a crush on Tyene Sand. Now that they're aware of an assassin, they'll be on the move to rendezvous with the others before the aggressor reaches his target. What are your thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> In anticipation of Game of Thrones' eighth and final season which is set to air on HBO this year on April 14th, I'm debating on whether or not I'd do a cast perspective on Daveth Baratheon's history from their perspective and wonder if whether or not you'd be interesting in seeing a brief bio section (ex. Date of birth, height, hair color, eye color, likes, dislikes, etc.) but I'll leave that up to you. Remember, Game of Thrones season 8 will be on the air on April 14th.


	88. Trouble in the East

**Near the ruins of Old Valyria…**

* * *

Scouring the ruins of the once-great civilization of the Valyrian Freehold, Jon Connington traded occasional glances of his surroundings. Valyria was once the mightiest empire in the world before its destruction 400 years ago in a catastrophic volcanic event known as the Doom which utterly wiped out the capital city of Old Valyria and the Valyrian Peninsula's surrounding colonies as well as almost all their dragons in a single day. Every recorded history and knowledge was lost that day.

Although the ruins remained albeit with slight crumbling eroding stones, the former Lord of Griffon's Roost knew he mustn't remain lingering about in the territory for much longer. The ruins of Valyria had become overgrown and subsumed by a nearby jungle which was an extent even greater than Harrenhal. Those who ventured into Old Valyria in the pursuit of seeking lost treasure were never seen or heard from ever again… and there were reported sightings of Stone Men dwelling in the area. As such, Jon—a seasoned combat veteran—knew he had to be extremely careful.

"Blasted pile of rubble," he grumbled under his breath.

A large bank of fog began rolling in the more he ventured inward. Brushing branches out of his way, Jon approached his destined location where he was to supposedly meet with an old contact of his. Connington heard rustling noises and brought his hand to his side, grasping the handle of his blade; but a sound emanating from above momentarily breaks his concentration.

***RRROOOOOOOAAAAAAA!***

Jon looked up and, to his surprise, noticed Daenerys' missing dragon Drogon flying overhead. Massive and majestic, Drogon's unexpected appearance enraptured Connington.

"There you are. Black and red scales with red-black wings," he mused. "Traveling north by northeast; Daenerys will no doubt be pleased to know you were here…"

"Only you won't be the one reporting back to her."

Turning around to respond to the intruder, Jon was surprised to see none other than the disgraced Ser Jorah Mormont appearing from out beneath the underbrush; no longer did the exiled Northmen lord wear steal and leather armor made for combat, but Jorah's attire consisted of a tattered yellow shirt, blue neck scarf, drawstring pants, six braided leather arm wraps and a grayish-brown waistcoat.

"Jorah Mormont."

"Jon Connington."

Both men sized each other up; they hadn't seen each other in about two years after Connington revealed Jorah to be a spy for the Usurper Robert Baratheon to Daenerys and a traitor the Targaryen cause back in Astapor—a revelation that not only caused the exiled Westerosi to not only lose the Dragon Queen's favor but also to be banished from her service. Since then, Jorah searched endlessly for a way to regain his khaleesi's favor.

"I half expected to find Black Balaq or Duck, but not you. Never thought I'd find you here near the Smoking Sea surrounding the ruins of Valyria."

Jorah stood tall and firm. "And I had not expected to see you here as well, but I haven't forgotten how you shamed me the way you did."

"And for that you blame me for your own doing? If so then you are even more deluded than I thought, Mormont. Fitting that you meet your end here," he scoffed as he unsheathed in sword.

Sensing danger, Jorah unsheathed his blade in preparations for a fight. Both veterans eyed each other, one measuring the other… the griffon of Griffon's Roost and the bear of Bear Island readied themselves for battle.

"You'll find I'm not that easy to take down," Mormont retorted.

And within that moment, both Jon and Jorah lunged forth. Trading blow after blow, steel clashed and dashed violently; the griffon and the bear were both equally seasoned veterans in their own right, neither one landing a decisive blow on the other. As Ser Jorah thrusted his blade forward, Connington sidestepped and swung around but Mormont ducked before dropping to his knees to strike at Jon's feet. Connington dodged by jumping over it. Both disgraced Westerosi exiles reverted back to square one with their blades drawn and pointed at each other.

"You're pretty good in a fight, Mormont," Jon complimented dryly. "But what you have is still not enough to best me."

"And yet here I stand, Connington."

"Ah yes, the words of House Mormont; one that speaks of perseverance and difficulties that shape the men and women of Bear Island in times of hardship."

"It also symbolizes our unwavering dedication to our allies and loved ones," Jorah explained.

"How ironic considering you spied on Daenerys for the Usurper."

Jorah frowned. "I severed all ties as soon as I saw her walk through the flames unharmed! I came to believe in her then… as I've come to believe in her now. And if that means I have to carve my way back to our khaleesi's side, then I'll fight to the end!"

"A fierce foe, a faithful friend," Jon recited his house motto. "You've had your chance to be a faithful servant of House Targaryen and you chose to waste it by not saying not being honest with yourself!"

Resuming the fight, Connington and Mormont battled fiercely in the fog, muddy terrain and near steamy streams. Steel strained against steel, both men strained against each other's constant pressuring—neither of them giving any ground. Jon and Jorah were nearly as experienced as the other and were just as aged.

***SPLASH!***

Perking up their ears at the sound of loud splashing, Connington and Mormont ceased their duel and broke off to see ripples in the water as several humanoid silhouettes dropped down before vanishing; both men's senses were on high alert.

"What was that?"

"Shh! I saw something move."

"Check the water—"

As both veterans remained on guard trying to search through the fog, numerous assailants leapt out of the water and lunged at their targets; the men attacking looked as if their skin was dead, hard and cracked like stone.

"*Haaauuf! Haaah!*"

"Stone Men! Don't let them touch you!" Jorah called out.

Jon smacked one aside with the back of his pommel. "Defensive formation! Get behind me!" he shouted.

Often shunned from society, people severely afflicted with greyscale are exiled from their homelands to the ruins of cities in Essos, particularly Old Valyria, at the first sign of the disease. As such, greyscale has caused its victims to become witless and lumbering, generally passive if left undisturbed, though further onset of the disease leads to madness and increased risk of provocation. Physical contact with Stone Men bears a high risk of contracting greyscale, so they are treated with great caution. What the victims do with their final months of years, no one knows and no one wants to find out.

"*Snaarl! Grraugh!"*

"Back, you mindless beasts!" Connington roared, thrusting his longsword through one of their hearts.

Shoulder-to-shoulder, back-to-back… the former combatants now cooperate with each other in a desperate fight for survival as more Stone Men came pouring from the water and undergrowth, wails shivering through the fog—faint and high. Outnumbered, Jon and Jorah moved from the swamps to the upper hills in the pursuit of gaining the high ground. The Stone Men occasionally tripped and stumbled over each other during the chase up the hill, but they still kept on coming.

Mormont raised his longsword and shoved away another stone man, watching the greyscale humanoid slide down the hill and into the fog below.

*"Gaauh! Huuuaaa!*"

"Gah! They're everywhere!"

"We can't stay here! Fall back!"

Jorah felled another stone man, bringing his blade down on the shoulder but gets stuck in the ribcage as a third moved towards him—only a mere inches away. Connington held the flat end of his sword to keep him at bay before driving a dagger into its eye. Spotting a nearby paddle long since abandoned by pirates or treasure hunters, Mormont picked it up swung his pole, slamming it into another stone man's chest and watched as it sent him tumbling down the hill into the river where he sank at once.

Connington drove another creature backwards as soon as his feet felt the terrain transition from steep hill to a flat surface, indicating that both men had reached the top. When the stone men moved aft, Connington blocked the way as Mormont flashed his blade, a spark flying where the steel bit into the stone man's calcified grey flesh and kicked the limb aside. Together the griffon and bear forced the creatures down the hill and into the black waters of the Rhoyne. By then, both were worn out and sought to catch their breaths.

"Seven fucking hells," Jon panted faintly. "Never… *huff!* coming back here *huff!* again!"

Jorah was already on one knee. "Did… *huff!* did any of them touch you?"

"Why should you be concerned?"

"If any of us contracted greyscale, then we'd meet the same fate as those sods."

Jon looked up, noticing the sun beginning to set. "Best find someplace a lot safer than here, Mormont. I'd rather kill you here and call it a day, but Valyria is not fit as a battle arena for any combatant."

"The feeling is mutual," Jorah grumbled.

"Just to be clear: this does not make us allies. The Dragon Queen will not see you again."

"Well guess what, Connington? That's no longer up to you."

"Oh?" Jon raised an eyebrow daringly. "And why is that?"

Jorah looks at Jon's arm and points. "Look."

The once Lord of Griffon's Roost and Hand of the King glanced down and shrugged off his wolfskin cloak, slipped his mail shirt off over his head, settled on a camp stool, and peeled the glove from his right hand. The nail on his middle finger had turned as black as jet, he saw, and the grey had crept up almost to the first knuckle. The tip of his ring finger had begun to darken too, and when he touched it with the point of his dagger, he felt nothing.

"You've been infected," he said simply.

"A slow death," Jon murmured.  _'I still have time. One year, perhaps, maybe two or five if I'm lucky. Some stone men live for ten. Hopefully that'll be more than enough time to cross the Narrow Sea, to see my home Griffin's Roost again. To end the Usurper's line for good and all, and put my dearest friend Rhaegar's sister upon the Iron Throne._ _'_  Connington glanced at Jorah in a near similar fashion. "The same could be said of you. Lift up your sleeve."

Jorah's brow lowered and he frowned, but begrudgingly pulled up his sleeve and expressed a mix of surprise and horror. Mormont examines his arm and notices the beginnings of greyscale on his wrist. After a moment, both the griffon and bear looked at one another.

"Seems we'll both end up sharing the same fate."

Jon shook his head. "Not if I had anything to say about it."

Before Ser Jorah could respond, Connington quickly approached and hit Mormont in the back of the head with the paddle the bear had just thrown down, rendering him unconscious. Jon looked down at the motionless Mormont, before reaching into his pelt and unveiling a long rope.

"You'll be coming with me back to Meereen, Mormont. Daenerys Targaryen will decide your fate… We'll see whether or not she'll forgive you and take us both back home. I owe my cherished friend that much."

As Jon slung the unconscious Jorah onto a raft, he felt somewhat somber.

"I've no plans on wasting more years living in exile," he grumbled as he took out a small knife and pressed it against his flesh. "And I have  _no intention_  of losing myself to this disease."

* * *

**In Meereen…**

* * *

Strolling through the streets of Meereen, Queens Saqnizza Dhardu and Daenerys Targaryen were in the middle of a heated argument of ideology.

"You plan on letting your people butcher each other for sport? Where slaves fought other slaves to the death?" Daenerys accused.

Saqnizza angrily waived her finger. " _Free_  men fight  _free_  men, Daenerys Stormborn," she corrected her. "Look around you: none of us are in chains, no longer slaves. The Great Pit of Daznak will be open again in accordance to the traditional start of the fighting season."

"I do not respect this tradition of human cockfighting."

"Of course you don't because  _you_  don't even bother to  _understand_  us! I will not allow a foreign outsider to dictate the terms of what the people of Meereen should or shouldn't do nor should the pitfighters be left to fend for themselves, left out in the cold on the streets if not forgotten about."

"You were sold into slavery, Saqnizza, forced to fight to the death for the amusement of the masters, and you're defending the fighting pits?"

"I didn't get to be the so-called 'revolutionary leader of a slave rebellion' without getting my hands bloody," she retorted. "Every martial prowess I learned I learned at the fighting pits. Our children and their descendants will train there and become Meereen's greatest defenders."

Daenerys frowned. "An army of child fighters."

"Don't you even think about going there! You want to know how to rule? Sometimes we have to compromise whether we like it or not. And you will remember this: you're a guest in someone else's home. One wrong misstep, and you and your followers will find yourselves out on the streets."

The Dragon Queen was vocally opposed to the reopening of Meereen's fighting pits, but no matter how much she protested it was ultimately Saqnizza's decision to make. As the Unsullied and Meereenese City Guard patrolled the streets, there still remained a deal of mistrust lingering between them.

"I say open the fighting pits," suggested Daario.

Saqnizza blinked in surprise and Daenerys stared at him.

"What?"

"My mother was a whore, I told you that," he explained. "So one day when I was 12, she sold me to a slaver she fucked the night before. I wasn't big, but I was quick. And I loved to fight. So they sold me to a man in Tolos who trained fighters for the pits. I had my first match when I was 16. I'm only here because of those pits."

A long pause hovered between them.

"And you remember you all live in my home as guests by my leave?" Saqnizza asked. "That we haven't asked anything should you agree to uphold the agreement we've made?"

Daario nodded. "You're the Queen. Meereen knows who leads them," he turns to Daenerys, " _and_  who makes thousands of enemies across the world. As soon as they see weaknesses, they'll attack."

"That's why I have the Unsullied assist the Meereenese City Guard in patrolling the streets," Daenerys points out.

"Anyone with a chest full of gold can buy an army of Unsullied. You're not the Mother of Unsullied. You're the Mother of Dragons."

Saqnizza glared at him. "And need I remind you both that  _one_  of  _your_  dragons attacked our livestock and murdered helpless children?  _My_  people's children?"

Daenerys frowned; she hadn't forgotten the memory of what had occurred last year. A farmer Goatherd approached Queen Saqnizza about Daenerys' dragon Drogon and carried a bundle of small bones charred on the ends. And a little skull. A child's remains. Daenerys remembered how mournfully Goathered wept for the loss of his daughter as Missandei translated his language to her. She had also remembered the next day how explicitly furious Saqnizza was with Daenerys as soon as the rebel queen discovered of the incident… and the threat.

_"You've got a lot of nerve thinking your beasts can do whatever they want in my city!"_  she yelled at her with such heat.  _"This is my home, not yours! If you can't keep your savage beasts under control, then I'll have every Meereen storm the catacombs and slaughter them for every innocent blood they've spilled!"_

It didn't take long for Daenerys Targaryen to feel threatened or intimidated, but what other options did she have? She couldn't find Drogon and had no idea where he was, but with tears in her eyes she had to confine the other two Rhaegal and Viserion to the catacombs. They've grown larger and powerful, but Daenerys still thought of them as her children even as she snapped collars around their necks whilst they fed on goats.

Nor had she forgotten as she closed the catacomb double doors Rhaegal and Viserion realized something was wrong and cried out to their 'mother' for help.

That did little to ease tensions. But…

"AAaaah!"

Saqnizza, Daenerys and Daario turned their heads to the scream as the city bells began ringing. Instinctively, the rebel queen turned to her guests.

"Get back to the pyramid," she told them. "We'll talk more later."

As Daario escorted a confused Daenerys back to her guest quarters in the Great Pyramid, Saqnizza unsheathed her twin daggers from her waist and rushed off to investigate. The Unsullied, Meereenese City Guards alike all rushed to the area where they find dead soldiers and a few prostitutes in a nearby alley.

"Skoros sepār massitas kesīr (What just happened here)?" the rebel Queen asked them.

One of the guards shook his head. "Īlon ȳdra daor gīmigon, ñuha dāria. (We don't know, my Queen)."

A freedman witness spoke up. "Pōnta're kesīr! (They're here!)" he told them. "Jaelzi naejot dīnagon iā collar arlī va ñuha ȳrgos! (They want to put a collar back on my neck!)"

"Qilōni iksis trying naejot dīnagon iā collar va aōha ȳrgos? (Who is trying to put a collar on your neck?)"

"Pōnta brōzagon pōntāla se Trēsi hen Jazdanī. (They call themselves the Sons of the Harpy)."

Saqnizza furrowed her brow and gripped her daggers tightly. The only evidence they managed to find was a gold mask with horned faces resembling harpies. Another scream in the distance breaks their attention, attracting some Unsullied marching to investigate. Hearing more chaos erupting throughout the streets, Saqnizza calls for her guards.

"Va nyke! Mīsagon se ābra! (On me! Protect the civilians!)" she hollered.

A prostitute nearby gestures them in a direction where Queen Saqnizza and the Unsullied run into. When they are out of view, she stops her act and wipes the tears away. The Unsullied enter a corridor, expecting to catch the sons. Instead, they themselves are ambushed from every direction by Sons of the Harpy.

"Ziry iksos iā nykeā! (It's a trap!)" Saqnizza realized. "Tolvys, ivīlībagon aōha ābrar! Ivīlībagon iā dāez Mīrīn! (Everyone, fight for your lives! Fight for a free Meereen!)"

"Syt Mīrīn! (For Meereen!)"

After a tense few moments, a fight breaks out. During the fight, one of the Unsullied's helmet is knocked off, and is revealed to be Grey Worm. Another fight breaks out elsewhere. The two Unsullied there are killed almost immediately. Saqnizza takes out her fair share of assassins, though not without receiving her share of wounds and remaining outnumbered. Grey Worm is badly injured, and with his party killed, also badly outnumbered.

Fighting with every ounce of strength and willpower, Saqnizza and Grey Worm continue holding off the Sons of the Harpy and are able to kill several them, but are both seriously injured in the process.

"Gaah!" the rebel Queen screams in pain as one of the Sons of the Harpy assailant plunges a dagger into her back before another impales her through the gut.

Her strength leaving her, Saqnizza drops her twin daggers. Before the Sons of the Harpy could finish her deliver the final blow, Grey Worm slays the remaining assassins as they release their grip on the rebel Queen. Slumping to the ground, Grey Worm crawls his way up to the fallen Saqnizza and shakes her to look for signs of life before passing out of exhaustion. Surrounded by piles of the dead Sons of the Harpy, city guard and Unsullied, the following morning would usher in a new stage of chaos… and the loss of a revolutionary icon among the former slaves-turned-freed men.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trouble seems to follow certain major characters in Game of Thrones; as Jon Connington and Jorah Mormont came to blows before fending off an attack from stone men near the ruins of Old Valyria, Saqnizza's forces come face-to-face with the Sons of the Harpy—only these insurgents are opposed to Daenerys presence in Meereen, but they also oppose Saqnizza herself for her role in leading the revolution which ousted the slavers' rule over the area. Think each individual group of people will eventually find common ground with one another before things escalate too quickly? Thoughts? Let me know.


	89. Attempted assassination on Daveth I

**In Dorne…**

* * *

Taking a private stroll through the Water Gardens, King Daveth I Baratheon had longed to steady his nerves and calm himself down in the wake of what could possibly be described as a breach of protocol if not a breach of trust. Earlier, one of his own Kingsguard Ariyana Dayne had admitted to spying on him on behalf of House Martell; despite Prince Doran's attempt of explanation, Prince Oberyn and his paramour Ellaria Sand had pissed him off and caused him to storm out. The Young Stag knew he had to better control himself, but the thought of being deceived again was too much for him to handle.

Leaning against the wall, Daveth chose to do his breathing exercises: slow inhales through the nose, slow exhales out the mouth. Keeping two fingers pressed against his wrist, the Young Stag checked his pulse so it'd remain steady.

_"The house that puts family first will always defeat the house that puts the whims and wishes of its sons and daughters first. A good man does everything in his power to better his family's position – regardless of his own selfish desires,"_  a voice rang through his mind.

_"No matter who you are, no matter how strong you are, sooner or later, you'll face circumstances beyond your control, my son. When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. There is no middle ground."_

Daveth shook his head, trying to rid himself of past ghosts—those no longer with him. Feeling himself tense up, he curled his left hand into a ball and smacked the side of the building.

_"Seems what my said about you is true, after all. You are a good lad."_

"No… no, Ned, I'm really not," he quietly told himself.

"Brother!" a feminine voice called out to him. "Brother, wait!"

Turning his head, Daveth saw his younger sister Myrcella chasing after him—her delicate hands lifting the front of her dress so as to not trip over herself. Following close alongside her was Prince Trystane Martell; both of them had departed from the meeting chambers and sought him out.

"Your Grace," Trystane panted.

Myrcella huffed and straightened her hair. "Brother, come back with us please."

"I asked to be left alone."

Both Trystane and Myrcella were briefly taken aback by Daveth's bluntness, but it was Myrcella who quickly recomposed herself.

"Forgive me, Your Grace, but it's a request I will not obey," she told him. "The Queen has been very specific on what you've been gone through during these last few years. Because of that, I cannot in good conscience leave you alone."

"Oh? You think you understand exactly what I've been through?"

"Ever since Lannisport, yes. You're my brother, so of course I'd notice when something bothers you," she paused momentarily. "I also heard about what Joff did. The riots, all those innocent children…"

Daveth knew what Myrcella was referring to. "He paid for his crimes."

"What of the Greyjoys? You destroyed the Iron Islands."

Normally the Young Stag would find that particular mention of House Greyjoy to trigger harsh, unforgiving flashbacks of his troubled youth—but much to his surprise felt nothing at all. He wasn't fond of it, but neither did he back down.

"I don't deny it," he told her, "but not all the Greyjoys are gone. Yara is spending the rest of her days locked up at Deepwood Motte, and Theon… well, he had the courtesy of working against his father's wishes from the beginning."

"What did you do with him?"

"He bent the knee, swore an oath of fealty to the Iron Throne and is now a loyal bannerman of House Stark. I've named him Lord of the Iron Islands and Lord Reaper of Pyke."

"But the Iron Islands are—"

"The name alone suits our purposes far more than that useless barren wasteland. I gave the Greyjoys a second chance at redemption; they will not get a third."

"And mother?" she asked daringly.

Daveth felt his jaw clench a bit at the mention of their mother Queen Dowager Cersei Lannister.  _'You are no son of mine'_  still stung him and had relived each experience of her treachery in his sleep over and over again before doing what needed to be done… albeit it still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"You didn't see what she did, Myrcella," he told her. "Our mother… she's done things I was incapable of imagining."

"But why execute her?"

"You think I wanted that to happen? I never wished our mother ill, I never did! All I wanted was the truth. If she hadn't been so foolish as to demand a trial by seven in the first place, then she wouldn't have sealed her own fate. What's worse is the revelation knowing that she only used us all for her own egotistical agenda—a symbolism of the ego!" He calmed himself down. "I'm tired of it all, Myrcella. The lies, backstabbing… all whole lot of it. I'm tired of it all. It's all I've had to deal with for four years.  _Four_  years!"

Trystane said nothing, but listened.

"Fighting two wars back-to-back, outmaneuvering power-hungry sycophants at every corner… It's all I've ever done since you left home," he continued.

"Yet that doesn't mean you have to shoulder every burden by yourself!" Myrcella suggested.

_"The path laid before you will always remain a constant struggle, and every day you will face obstacles. Yes, you may stumble or even stray from the path… but there are still people out there who care for you; who want to help you."_

_'Oh, Lord Arryn…'_  Daveth's face somewhat softened.

Detecting her eldest brother's mental exhaustion and the stress of the world weighing him down, Myrcella approached and embraced Daveth in a nurturing hug. The Young Stag stiffened, but relented at his sister's touch. Trystane felt a sense of sibling comfort, much to his envy considering his mother left Dorne without providing a sibling for him to become acquainted with.

"Well, well… isn't this precious?" a rough voice called out.

Breaking the concentration, Daveth immediately looked over his shoulder and pushed Myrcella away from him. Turning around, the Young Stag noticed fifteen individuals donning the Dornish attire with a pack of dogs. Sensing danger, Daveth stepped in front of Myrcella and placed a protective arm across between them.

"Neither of these men are from Dorne," Trystane observed.

"No, they're not," Myrcella agreed.

The leader unveiled the golden balaclava off of his face, revealing his identity. A scar along his right face, bushy beard and dark brown (albeit slightly greying) hair smoothed back, the Young Stag recognized him from the Second Greyjoy Rebellion as well as the distinct medallion embroidered beneath his disguise.

"A red man upside-down on an x-shaped white cross over a black field," he observed. "The flayed man of House Bolton. Always was a bit too gruesome for my taste."

"Very observant of you, Oathkeeper," he bitterly grimaced, his yellow teeth clenched.

Daveth looked serious. "Locke."

"Surprised to see me?"

Tyrstane looked at the King. "Your Grace, you know this man?" he asked.

The Young Stag nodded. "He was one of Lord Roose Bolton's men-at-arms. During the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, he unfortunately disgraced himself when he and his men terrorized Winterfell's denizens and tried to lie about it. Last I heard he was rotting in some bygone cell beneath the Dreadfort."

"I lost everything because of  _you_!" Locke snarled angrily. "Now everyone in the North wants my head!"

"You have only yourself to blame for your own misgivings. I know it, as does the entire North. You stand alone, Locke." He narrowed his eyes. "But it wasn't Lord Bolton who set you free, wasn't it? No, he's much too smart to risk anything that might jeopardize his house's standing. The dogs, how your men stink… I'm guessing that Ramsay not only released you from confinement but sent you here to stir up trouble, didn't he?"

Locke said nothing, but further furrowed his brows as the hounds began snarling. Myrcella backed away, more frightened of the animals bearing their teeth at them. Trystane Martell, however, gripped his rapier—ready to defend his betrothed.

"Who is this Ramsay?" he asked. "I've never heard of him."

"A bastard of the North, hence the surname Snow," Daveth explained. "He might appear to be cooperative on the outside, but one glance and you'll realize he's on a whole different level of psychotic sadism. Flaying people alive, torturing them, hunting them for sport after setting his hounds loose… He makes no secret of it all and takes great pleasure of inflicting pain onto others. Think of the worst moral tendencies you could possibly imagine."

Locke unsheathed his sword, as did his men. The dogs growled as Daveth stood his ground even as they slowly made their approach.

"Trystane," he whispered to him, "take my sister back inside. Warn your father. Go."

Trystane shook his head. "Not leaving you alone, Your Grace," he declined. "These assassins invaded Dorne so they're also House Martell's problem."

"Now is not the time for tomfoolery."

"You're not going anywhere," Locke declared. "And you," he turns to Myrcella, "you're coming with us,  _Princess_."

Myrcella backed away again and felt herself pressing against the wall behind her. That was the last straw for the Young Stag. Unveiling a hidden dagger from his sleeve, Daveth stared down the Bastard's Boys and their hounds despite the danger.

"Come at my sister and I'll make the Rains of Castamere look like child's play," he warned threateningly.

"I will not be left with nothing again, Oathkeeper! Kill them all!"

"I've warned you."

"Rip him, girls!" Ben Bones ordered his dogs. "Rip him! Rip him!"

*"Woof! Woof! Woof!"*

One by one, the dogs lunged forth. Surprisingly none of them managed to get close enough as two of the Bastard's girls were cut down by the timely arrival of the Kingsguard Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Jaime Lannister.

"Oh no, you don't!" Ser Jaime exclaimed.

Lucius bashed another dog's head with his spiked mace. "Get back, you animals!" he proclaimed.

Daveth smiled confidently. "Your timing is impeccable," he remarked.

"Considering the noise your 'guests' were making, we knew there was trouble afoot," Jaime retorted.

"You shouldn't have gone off alone, Your Grace," Lucius scolded.

"We'll talk about it later. Here they come!"

Locke, Ben Bones, Yellow Dick, Damon Dance-for-Me, Luton, Sour Alyn, Skinner and Grunt all charged forth with their weapons drawn and unleashed their hounds for the next rush. Outnumbered, Daveth and the Kingsguard fought them off as best as they possibly could. Trystane tried to unsheathe his rapier, but was backhanded across the face by Locke, knocking him out.

"No!" Myrcella cried out.

"Stupid boy," he grumbled.

Lucius and Jaime fended off the hounds to fell Luton and Yellow Dick before returning their attention back to the dogs. The animals' jaws and teeth snapped within inches of the armor, ignoring the occasional kicks and backhands. Daveth, meanwhile, slashed his dagger at the Bastard's girls snouts but they were just as vicious as they were tenacious when promised fresh meet. One dog lunged upwards and snapped its jaws shut around the Young Stag's left arm.

***CRUNCH!***

"Gnaah!" Daveth hollered, the hound's teeth digging deep into his forearm and ripping at him.

Lucius turned to see the scene as two more hounds circled around the King, each trying to pull him down. "Protect the King!" he hollered.

Fighting to keep his balance, Daveth shook his arm to get the dog off of him but the vicious animal would not release its grip. Ser Lucuis arrived with mace in hand to smack two of them away from the King's legs before the Young Stag gripped his dagger and drove it deep near the base of animal's skull—ignoring the hounds quick yelp and twisted the blade, causing the Bastard's girl to release its grip.

Taking advantage of the chaos, Damon Dance-for-Me rushed to Myrcella with sword in hand. "You're coming with me," he said gripping the Princess by the wrist.

Myrcella struggled against his grip. "I don't want to! Let go of me!"

"I'm not  _asking_ ," he pointed the tip of his blade at the young girl's throat.

"UNHAND HER THIS INSTANT!" Jaime screamed angrily, driving his blade through Damon Dance-for-Me's back before gripping the assassin's sword arm and threw him to the ground, thrusting his blade downward through the nape of his neck.

"Uncle!" Myrcella cried out, pointing to her brother.

Jaime looked as Daveth held his mangled left arm; his sleeve was soaked in blood, yet the Young Stag continued to fight. Locke looked rather smug.

"Not so confident now, aren't you, Oathkeeper?" he taunted.

Daveth glanced from side to side, noticing the dogs closing in on him and Locke's men attempting to separate Lucius and Jaime from Myrcella who cradled an unconscious Tyrstane.

"Haven't you learned by now?" he countered. "Victory in battle is not won through superior numbers."

"Please! Look at you! There's more of us than there is of you! You've lost!"

"Not quite!" a voice called out.

***WHOP-EESH!***

Before Locke could respond, a whip wraps around his wrist. Daveth, Lucius, Jaime and Myrcella glanced up to see reinforcements arriving. Locke fought against the whip.

"The fuck are you?" he demanded.

A tall muscular Dornishwoman, armed with a spear, pierced her blade through Sour Alyn and knocked him to the ground.

"I am Obara Sand, daughter of Oberyn Martell," she announced. "I fight for Dorne! Who do you fight for?"

"Fucking bitch!" he hollered before the whip on his wrist untangled before it slapped him across the face.

***WHOP-EESH!***

Nymeria Sand scored another direct hit as her half-sister Tyene Sand parried her twin blades and cut Ben Bones' arm before impaling one of them through the eye.

"Your method of fighting gets rather sloppy whenever you're angry," Nymeria pointed out. "That makes you more susceptible to making more mistakes and exposing your own weak points."

Locke felt a sting across his cheek as Olyvar Frey—carrying a huge leather baggage around his shoulder—rushed into the fray, crossing swords with Grunt before tossing him aside and rushing towards Daveth.

"Your Grace!" he called out. "Thank the Gods we made it here in time!"

Daveth, still lifting his mauled left arm up, was pleased. "I was wondering what took you so long."

"We got a bit sidetracked, but that traveling merchant who brought us here helped us identify these treasonous scumbags. Once we figured it out, we came rushing back as fast as we could!"

"Good lad. I'll be sure you're all rewarded for this."

Feeling his chances at revenge slipping away, Locke let loose. "JUST FUCKIN' KILL 'EM ALL!"

Dogs ran in every direction, snapping their jaws at whoever crossed their path. Obara twirled her spear around to keep the dogs at bay; Tyene and Olyvar worked together in unison to keep other hounds away from Trystane and Myrcella. Nearby, the sound of rapid footsteps approaching became more and more apparent as Daveth felt another dog sinking its teeth onto his shoulder.

"Nnagh! Stupid dog!" he cursed, charging backwards to slam the Bastard's girl into the wall.

The animal yelped, but refused to release its grip. Slamming the beast repeatedly against the wall again and again, Daveth felt its jaws tighten before driving his dagger into its skull—withdrawing quickly as the Bastard's girl finally released and slumped to the ground. His shoulder and left arm were bleeding, staining his attire.

"Your Grace! Are you all right?" Olyvar called out.

"Does it look like I'm all right?!" he retorted.

Reaching into his bag while kicking a dog away, Olyvar pulled out Stormbringer.

"Your Grace! Catch!"

Tossing Stormbringer into the air, Olyvar watched as Daveth reached out with his right arm to grasp his Valyrian steel sword's handle. Truly feeling as he if was ready for a fight, the Young Stag swung his blade—fending off three dogs before noticing Locke storming after Myrcella and Jaime in a blinding, frustrating fury.

Like a lion stalking its prey, Daveth gave chase—leaping towards Locke, brought his left arm around Locke's neck and throwing him to the ground, never minding he himself stumbled as well. Ignoring the pain in his shoulder and arm, adrenaline rushing through his body, Daveth regained his balance… his gaze focused on Locke, like a predator stalking its prey.

"Brother!" Myrcella cried out.

"STAY AWAY FROM MY SISTER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!" he roared.

Locke got back to his feet and moved to defend himself from Daveth's onslaught; the Young Stag utilized one hand to rain down blow after blow. Locke kicked the Young Stag away before pressing the attack, steel clashing against one another before two dogs barked and snapped at his heels.

Daveth turned to fend them off, but Locke shoulder tackled the Young Stag against the nearest wall; viciously pounding at his mauled left forearm and shoulder. Daveth gritted his teeth and grabbed him, spinning him around before kneeing him and head-butting him.

"Fucking stag brat!" Locke cursed.

All Daveth saw was red after the stunt Locke just tried to pull, but blinked to normality once the footmen's stomping approached. Swarming in from all corners, a group of Dornish guards appeared and surrounded the assailants. A few of them managed to finish off the remaining Bastard's girls, each cussing the vicious nature of the hounds. Locke watched as the leader stepped forth, revealing Prince Doran's Norovoshi captain of the guard Aero Hotah approached with halberd in hand.

"Drop your weapons!" he bellowed.

Realizing that he was now all alone, Locke hollered. Daveth, meanwhile, despite his wounds on the left arm and shoulder, smirked in a smug manner.

"Not so confident now, aren't you, Locke?" he repeated his taunts. "Do not complain. You brought this on yourself. Take a good look: there are more of us than there is of you. You have lost."

Lashing out his frustrations, Locke turned towards Aero—but before he could get out a single swing of his sword, Aero spun his halberd and brought it down on Locke's neck, nearly decapitating him in the process. As blood spurt out, Aero got his halberd unstuck and watched as Locke slumped to the ground lifeless.

"Hmph! Not even a decent challenge," he scoffed. Aero approached Daveth, noticing a bloodied dagger, bloodied Stormbringer and of course, the Young Stag's bleeding mauled injuries. "For a half-lion, half-stag… you actually fight pretty well when your back's against the wall."

Obara, Nymeria, Tyene Sand and Olyvar Frey approached.

"Your Grace, we need to get those wounds of yours looked at," Olyvar pointed out. "The Martells should have a maester. Maybe he'll patch you up."

Daveth glanced at the unconscious Trystane. "Be sure to treat him first," he pointed at him. "And escort Princess Myrcella Baratheon back inside."

_'Just like what Robert did with Barristan after the Battle of the Trident,'_  Lucius reminisced.

A dozen Dornish guards helped lift up Trystane, who mumbled something as he slowly regained consciousness. Myrcella looked between her betrothed and her brother.

"Don't worry. I'll be all right," he told her. "Go on. I'll catch up."

Myrcella escorted Trystane back inside, with the Sand Snakes keeping a close watch on them. Once out of sight, Aero Hotah looked at Olyvar.

"You took the weapons out of the storage," he told him.

Olyvar nodded. "I know I shouldn't have. Your roof, your rules. But… I had to protect the King. I'm his squire. It's my responsibility."

"Admirable," Lucius noted, "but that's the duty of the Kingsguard, child."

"Still, I'm sure this'll be a slight oversight that can be overlooked just this one time," Jaime mentioned. "We did, after all, helped keep those assassins off Prince Doran's son and His Grace in the process."

Aero looked unconvinced. "That'll be up to the Prince himself to decide. Inside now."

Wrapping Daveth's arm around his shoulder, Jaime glanced at his nephew as they proceeded to walk back inside one of the Water Gardens' main apartments near the Spear Tower.

"It never ends with you, doesn't it?" he asked.

Daveth shook his head, ignoring the burning stinging sensation in his left arm and shoulder. "I'm afraid it never does, uncle. Some peace and quiet would've been nice at least once in a while."

"Sadly not all of us can afford that luxury."

"That they cannot." He decided to change the subject. "You did well back there. With Myrcella."

Jaime blinked, yet shook his head as he recalled his earlier outburst.  _"UNHAND HER THIS INSTANT!"_  He shook his head again.  _'Don't even think about it! Remember, she's your niece… not your daughter.'_

"I know what you're thinking," Daveth interrupted his thoughts.

Jaime was getting wearier and shook his nephew's arm slightly, causing him to hiss.

"Oooh, you are going to pay for that one!"

"Promises, promises," he chuckled.

Jokes aside, both sought out House Martell's maester, Caleotte, and hoped he'd be decent enough to stitch the Young Stag's injuries sustained… and send a report back to King's Landing about the failed assassination attempt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, an assassination attempt has been carried out and Daveth Baratheon is bound to sustain more scars. Probably they'll be uglier than the ones he already has now. The earlier interaction with Myrcella indicates how much she's grown, carrying with her Cersei Lannister's beauty but none of her meanness and the famous Lannister cunning. A kind, gentle heart, Myrcella reassures her eldest brother that he doesn't have to do anything alone; an old habit he's found hard to break. And it may have been quick, but Aero Hotah got in on some of the action—one swing, one kill. But what reward do you guys think Daveth should give his rescuers? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> \-----
> 
> SNEAK PEEK PREVIEW (History and lore of Daveth Baratheon):
> 
> "Hi, I'm Henry Cavill and I play Daveth Baratheon.
> 
> When we first meet Daveth in season one, we kinda get a bit an insight of his relationship with his parents and what drives him to be the kind of young man he came to be known as, which of course we know as the Oathkeeper. He's the firstborn son and heir of Robert Baratheon and Cersei Lannister. We know that he has two younger brothers Joffrey and Tommen, and a sister Myrcella."
> 
> As Season 8 approaches, we'll soon be getting a bit of a sneak peek about the history of Daveth Baratheon; one where other actors and actresses have already gave in an HBO interview. Again, it's only a sample so expect a bit more as we further progress into the story.


	90. Sunset in the North, Sunrise in Dorne

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Arya Stark was feeling restless despite practicing her skills as a Water Dancer in Winterfell's main courtyard. Ser Rodrik and Theon were taking their sweet time at the northern most stronghold in the North, Last Hearth—once upon receiving a messenger raven informing them of Rickon Stark and Osha arriving at Lord Greatjon Umber's household. The new Lord of Karhold, Harald Karstark, was seemingly less than enthusiastic.

With the birth of her newborn nephew Eddard—Robb and Talisa's son, 'Little Ned' she affectionately called him, Arya was more motivated to keep practicing her skills… to protect her family despite her mother Catelyn forbidding her to do so.

"*huff, huff, huff!*" she panted. "Not yet. Just a little more…"

Balancing on her toes, Arya spun her body around twirling Needle in hand—moving gracefully through the mud; revolving through the motions of the Water Dance.

"Left!" she called, dancing around as she slashed and poked at a wooden dummy. "Right! Left, right, right! Lunge!"

Thrusting her small sword Needle forward, Arya pierced the practice target without breaking the tip.

"A girl keeps practicing," someone said.

Startled, Arya quickly spun around and pointed Needle at the person standing behind her. Much to her surprise, she recognized the man as Jaqen H'ghar; the mysterious assassin she met at King's Landing a long time ago had somehow managed to find his way to Winterfell undetected.

_'How did he find me? How'd he get past the guard?'_  she thought. "What are you doing here?"

Jaqen, disguised as a Winterfell man-at-arms, found Arya's confusion quite amusing. "Waiting for you," he answered honestly.

Arya wasn't convinced. "How did you slip past the guards? Was it hard?"

"After all the things you have seen, this is your question? How a man trekked through miles of mountains, hills and snow is no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."

"Look, I appreciate what you've done for my sister back at the capital. I haven't forgotten it, but…"

"But?"

Arya looked somewhat hesitant. "But I can take care of the rest. I can look out for my family on my own from now on."

"A girl tells herself that, but a man doubts that her skill alone will be enough," he countered.

"The hell do you know?" she hissed, trying to keep her voice down. "Syrio Forel trained me in the ways of the Water Dance, the former First Sword of Braavos himself, taught me everything he knew about fighting!"

Jaqen still looked amused. "Ah, a man knows the name. But has your dancing master teach a girl how to keep a family whole? The skills she obviously lacks?"

More and more, Arya was getting agitated and angry at the perceived insult.

"Ask yourself: what is a girl's most important thing she values most?" he asked.

"Family," she answered bluntly.

"A girl would do anything to protect them? Regardless of what societal restrictions are placed upon her?"

"Yes."

"And to do that a girl feels as if she must keep honing her skills in the Braavosi Water Dance?"

"Yes."

Jaqen approached, surprisingly calm in the face of danger, yet courteous. Turning his head away just momentarily, he lifted his hand upward and gripped his chin. Arya leaned her head sideways, curious as to what he was doing. To her shock and surprise, he extended his hand over his head and drastically changed his appearance. To Arya it looked as if Jaqen had ripped his own face off to reveal someone else. His cheeks grew fuller, his eyes closer; his nose hooked, a scar appeared on his right cheek where no scar had been before. And when he shook his head, his reddish-brown hair with a silver streak had drastically turned into a bluish hue and displayed an ugly facial expression with a large bump on the bridge of his nose.

"But what if a man told you that there was another way to better yourself when greater dangers arrive to threaten one's own kin, Arya Stark? Another way a girl can become more than what she is now?"

Arya still stood motionless, her brown eyes still wide before she backed away from him. "H-how did you do that?"

"A girl forgets a man's earlier words," he said quietly, revealing a shiny gold tooth. "It's no harder than taking a new name, if you know the way."

It didn't take long for Arya to understand what he was telling her. "You're… offering to train me?" she realized. "But I'm already a Water Dancer."

Jaqen chuckled. "To be a dancing master is a special thing, but to be a Faceless Man, that is something else entirely."

"A what?"

"The way it works, a girl goes to the Faceless Men and tells them who she wants killed, and we negotiate the price," he explained. "The more prominent the target, the more difficult they are to get to, the more dangerous for the assassin and the guild, the higher the price."

"You're… assassins? But assassins have no honor!"

Jaqen raised an eyebrow. "But a girl finds it honorable to employ the use of an assassin in the protection of a sister not once, not twice but three times when it suits her whims?" he countered, finding Arya's response hypocritical.

Arya bit her tongue. She bitterly lamented that Jaqen had a point in his statements; she  _did_  employ him to kill all three Kettleblack brothers back in King's Landing to protect her sister Queen Sansa from her mother-in-law Dowager Queen Cersei Lannister's cruel, vicious machinations. She signed with resignation.

"A man can offer you this."

"You can teach me how to be a Faceless Man?"

"The girl has many names on her lips. Those who mean to inflict harm on the ones she cares about, the names of those she yearns to safeguard."

_'Robb, mother, Bran, Rickon, Jon, Sansa,'_  Arya's tomboy face switched from fierce to softened. _'Sansa, Little Ned, Lyonel, Cassanna…'_  While normally she would abundantly refuse outright, Arya thought of her niece and nephews; no matter how far away they were, she absolutely loved all three of them very much. "No one's ever safe for long," she spoke, "and with winter here, we'll need to look out for one another. You're sure you can teach me?"

Jaqen nodded. "A man has said. If you would learn, you must come with me."

Arya suddenly grew hesitant. "Where?"

"Far away, across the Narrow Sea to Braavos."

"But my family…"

"Will be none the wiser," he said, pressing a small coin into her palm. "Here."

Arya examined the strange form of currency. She hadn't seen anything like it before; it was square-shaped and made of iron, minted with the image of the Titan of Braavos on it. "What is it?"

"A coin of great value."

"What am I supposed to do with a coin?" she asked.

"Should you ever decide to take up on a man's offer, just present that coin to any man from Braavos and say these words to him—valar morghulis (all men must die)."

"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," Arya repeated. It wasn't hard. Her fingers closed tight over the coin. "When do you leave?"

"Now."

That wasn't enough time for Arya to pack some of her belongings, but she's managed with far less. Her thoughts once again turned to her family; as much as it pained her, Arya once again had to make one of the hardest decisions in her life. She looked up at Jaqen, another flame burning in her eyes.

"Valar morghulis (all men must die)," she said once more, but with more certainty.

Jaqen interpreted it as a 'yes'. "Valar dohaeris (all must serve)," he answered back. "If a girl is absolutely certain, she must leave with a man now. She must not have unnecessary baggage. A ship leaves from White Harbor to Braavos."

The following nightfall it was decided. Believing that this was to be her path forward towards improving herself as a fighter, Arya followed Jaqen H'dgar out of Winterfell under cover of night past the Stark guards and rode deep into the woods—occasionally glancing back at her home once more. Arya told herself that all she was doing was simply for the benefit of the family, it still didn't make leaving that much more easier.

"Sorry, mother. Robb," Arya felt her voice crack. "And… I'm sorry, Little Ned. Forgive your auntie for doing this. Auntie will be back home soon, better than ever before. She'll protect you safe, just like mama wolf does with her pups."

* * *

**In Dorne…**

* * *

The next day had passed since the failed assassination attempt.

King Daveth sat on an orange bench having a small view of the Water Garden below whilst House Martell's maester Caleotte finished stitching up his left arm and shoulder. The Dornish maester applied a medical ointment known as firemilk on the Young Stag's arm and shoulder to clean the wound, though it still burned on contact. Other ointments applied contained substances such as mustard seeds, nettles and mold of bread which were helpful to fight off any potential infection when the Bastard's Boys vicious hounds bit into him. Shoulder and left arm were mauled bloody, but Daveth still fought off the assassination attempt with help and some likely unexpected assistance from the Sand Snakes.

"Almost done, Your Grace," Caleotte informed him. He steadily put the vial down and finished the last remaining stitch.

Daveth simply remained still, holding his breath and slightly gritting his teeth to ignore the feeling of the needle threading in and out of his skin to seal the wound closed. Cotton bandage cloths were wrapped around his shoulder and chest; his faint scars were visible as Caleotte began wrapping bandages around his arm.

Ser Lucius, one of Daveth's senior Kingsguard, stood guard. "You're lucky those mongrels didn't tear your arm off, lad," he remarked.

Jaime nodded. "Good thing we arrived when we did," he agreed. "Imagine what would've happened if we weren't there. Heard those dogs were specifically bred to track down and kill wolves."

"Judging by the look of those hounds, they look like they haven't been fed for a few days," Olyvar theorized. "Probably starved 'em so they'd be extra vicious."

"Are you certain it was Roose Bolton's bastard?"

Daveth didn't move. "Locke is one of Lord Bolton's best hunters, but he's more in league with Ramsay Snow's line of thinking. Just as cruel and malicious, though one holds the leash and barks orders while the other merely responds to the call."

"Pitiful," Lucius spat. "In my days, assassination attempts were done in secrecy and more effectively, not out in the open and loudly. Youngins these days have no discipline."

"Well, they'll find out it failed sooner or later," remarked Jaime. "Still, I think it'd be best if we inform the Small Council about the attempt on His Grace's life."

"No," Daveth shook his head. "Not yet."

Olyvar looked confused. "Not yet? Why not?"

Even Ser Lucius and Daveth's uncle Ser Jaime were curious.

"Think about it: if we informed the council about the attempted assassination, then all eyes would immediately turn to Dorne," he explained. "They would firstly accuse House Martell of deliberately sabotaging the peace talks which could potentially further escalate tensions and spark another war."

"So we do nothing?"

"On the contrary, we'll do the exact opposite. Varys has his little birds stationed everywhere both in Westeros and across the Narrow Sea, and I have some old contacts who owe me a few favors."

Lucius pieced the puzzle together. "Meaning we'd respond to the crisis to uncover the mystery in a quick yet effective manner, but just discretely enough so as to avoid alerting the enemy of our intention."

Daveth nodded. "Exactly."

All four men debated back and forth as Maester Caleotte finished wrapping the final bandage around the Young Stag's arm.

"We're done," he said.

Standing from his seat, Daveth examined his left arm and gave a quick flex of his muscle—the medicinal ointment burned beneath the cotton and the stitched up wound was itching, but the Young Stag still retained the use of both his arm and shoulder.

"Are you in pain?" Caleotte asked.

Daveth shook his head. "Maester, I've been beaten, stabbed, clubbed, riddled with arrows, nearly lost an eye, almost drowned at the Sunset Sea and was routinely tortured for almost a year when I was 8. Getting bitten by a dog? This pales in comparison."

Olyvar was just as puzzled. "How can you be so calm when someone, some groups of people, literally just tried to kill you?" he asked.

"Listen to your squire, nephew. Don't dismiss such things so lightly," Jaime warned. "No one is invincible, not even you."

"I'm well aware of my limitations."

The Young Stag eased himself back into his spare attire of loose, layered golden Dornish attire, taking certain precautions to ensure the stitches don't come undone. Even then, it still slightly agitated him. Slipping one arm through each sleeve, he didn't even notice someone else entering the guest room.

"That doesn't mean you should keep pushing your luck," a feminine voice broke the silence.

Daveth turned and noticed his wife, Queen Sansa Stark, standing in the doorway. Judging by the look on her face, Sansa appeared to be quite upset—whether scorn or worry, he couldn't tell. Maybe it was both? The Wolf Queen had come a long way since arriving from Winterfell to King's Landing, growing and maturing to be a capable player in her own right. A pang of guilt struck the Young Stag as his wife approached him, possibly expecting to hear words expressing her disappointment—but much to Daveth's surprise, Sansa quickly closed the gap and wrapped her arms around her husband. She held him close.

"I heard what happened," Sansa buried her face into his chest. "Thank the Gods, you're all right. I was really worried, you stupid idiot."

Daveth held his wife close, using his good arm and patted her back.  _'I… suppose I deserved that,'_  he admitted.

More footsteps were heard, revealing Princess Myrcella Baratheon entering the chamber. Jaime asked to speak with his 'niece' to check her well-being after the assassination attempt and especially how one of them tried to abduct her. The Kingslayer could see how much his 'niece' matured since he last saw her – Myrcella was a spitting image of Cersei when she was younger. Standing there in her pink dress, the Lannister necklace upon her neck, Myrcella's primary focus appeared to be fixed more on her brother.

"'Cella," Daveth acknowledged.

She embraced her brother. "Brother. Are you in pain? Does it hurt?" she asked slightly worried.

"I'll be all right. Really," he reassured.

Myrcella looked down and released her hold.

"How's Trystane?" Jaime asked.

"He'll be all right. Just… embarrassed," she answered.

"Embarrassed about what?"

"That he tried to defend me and well, failed. He can't stop thinking about it. He's very proud, you know."

_'Proud? Seriously? One hit and he's out like a candle. How could a suitor protect my sister like that?'_  Daveth disapproved but bit his tongue, referring to Prince Trystane Martell's performance in combat.

Olyvar approached. "Were you harmed, Princess?" he asked.

Myrcella shook her head. "No. No, I'm fine. Just… shaken by what's happened. Prince Doran sends his well-wishes, brother. Says he's thankful you protected his son and heir."

The Young Stag still frowned inside.  _'That one lapse in security nearly got you both killed.'_

"Are you… still willing to talk?"

Daveth sighed. "Yes. Yes, Myrcella. I'm still willing to continue the peace talks with Prince Doran. Your engagement to his son… will continue."

Myrcella breathed a sigh of relief. She had desperately hoped that what had happened in the meeting room earlier before the assassins came hadn't derailed the proceedings, but was elated to know this could possibly mean her betrothal would remain intact.

"Are you happy here?" Jaime asked.

"Dorne is my home now, uncle. This has been my home for years," she said. "I didn't want to come here at first, but I did my duty. I did what my brother said. So if you're thinking about wanting to take me away from here, then forget it. I love Trystane, I'm going to marry him and  _we're staying right here_."

Jaime and Daveth both equally raised eyebrows. They could tell right away she's serious. Jaime, in particular, noticed that Myrcella was indeed happy. Soon afterwards, Shae and Brella soon entered the room; each of the Queen's handmaidens carried the young Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana Baratheon.

"Your Graces," they both curtsied.

Sansa looked at them. "See, children?" she told the twins. "Papa's all right. He's okay."

Each of the royal Baratheon twins babbled in response. As the Wolf Queen picked up Lyonel, Princess Cassana stretched out her tiny arms towards her father—yearning for his attention. Using only one arm, Daveth was given his daughter from Shae. The little girl gripped her father's robe with her tiny fingers.

"Hey, little bugger," Daveth said to his daughter. "Did you and your brother behave for your aunt Myrcella?"

Myrcella smiled. "Lyonel and Cassana have been very good, brother. They're so adorable!" she almost squealed in delight again.

Ser Lucius smiled at the warm sight. Olyvar tried to hide his expression, as did Jaime as all in attendance observed closely.

"*Mmu*", baby Cassana babbled. "Dada."

Both Daveth and Sansa's eyes widened in surprise and looked at each other.

"Did you… hear that?" he asked.

Sansa nodded. "Her first word," she gasped before smiling. "Yes, little one. That's dada. Dada's right here!"

"Aww, how sweet," Shae praised.

"Dada, dada," Cassana babbled again.

Leaning against the wall, Jaime observed as everyone around him nearly swarmed the royal babies. To them it was big news that one of the twins started talking for the first time, even if it's just one word. Slightly dumbfounded and somewhat envious, Jaime had long suppressed his paternal instincts for his 'niece' out of necessity for her well-being. Perhaps what seemed to be the first time, he was slowly becoming more envious about the joys of fatherhood taking place in front of him—but Daveth was Jaime's own nephew and knew it was wrong to feel that way.

Still, Jaime kept his mouth shut and watched the family— _his_  family, coming together even if things are no longer the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends with the return of a familiar character along with an apparent discussion. Arya Stark plans on leaving Winterfell to embark on her own journey to Braavos to become a Faceless Man. Little Ned is apparently not going to be happy that his aunt's gone off on her own again. In Dorne, Daveth has calmed down enough to the point where he's going to resume the negotiations with Prince Doran Martell, but is apparently not pleased with Trystane Martell's skills as a fighter when the assassins came for him, so do you think he'll do something about it later? And… one of the babies just spoke for the first time! Imagine that. With the initial trouble stopped for the time being, think the negotiations will come to a head soon? Thoughts? Let me know.


	91. And Now His Watch Has Ended

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joffrey the Illborn makes a big, fatal mistake for the last time.

**At Castle Black…**

* * *

Within Castle Black's main hall, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch Jon Snow tapped his fingers anxiously. Sitting at their tables below him, Jon had to make some discrete yet also difficult decisions. Days before he had to confide with the ailing Maester Aemon.

**ooOoo**

> _"I need your advice," he told him. "There's something I want… no, what I need to do. Something I have to do. But… it'll divide the Night's Watch. Bitterly. Half the men will hate me the moment I give the order."_
> 
> _The 104-year old Targaryen maester's hands shook. "Half the men hate you already, Lord Commander. Do it."_
> 
> _Jon still looked uncertain. "But you don't know what it is."_
> 
> _"That doesn't matter. You do," Aemon countered. "You will find little joy in your command. But with luck, you will find the strength to do what needs to be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy, and let the man be born."_

**ooOoo**

So many decisions, yet the one he had in mind about the captive wildlings which was without a doubt  _the_  most controversial – yet only a few of his sworn brothers in the Night's Watch knew. Grenn, Edd, Samwell… they were perhaps the only real friends he had; some were loyal, others were against him such as Ser Alliser Thorne. He might not have been chosen as the new Lord Commander, but that doesn't mean he'll follow orders blindly. But before that, Jon had to make some appointments.

"Take care of Maester Aemon," he whispered to Samwell.

Nearby, Castle Black's guest of honor Lord Stannis Baratheon watched on. The Lord of Dragonstone had been given permission to observe Snow's tested leadership. Being stern and humorless as he is, Stannis had given Jon a few words of wisdom when the dawn shined through the snowy skies.

**ooOoo**

> _"You have many enemies in Castle Black,"_  he told him.  _"Have you considered sending Alliser Thorne elsewhere? Give him command of Eastwatch-by-the-Sea."_
> 
> _Jon shook his head. "I heard it was best to keep your enemies close."_
> 
> _Stannis, however, disagreed with that statement. "Whoever said that didn't have many enemies."_

**ooOoo**

Jon gave a quick glance at Stannis, letting him know he had thinking about his words closely before looking back at all who attended this meeting. Raising his cup, he gave three loud smacks to get everyone's attention.

"Brothers," he began and the conversations ceased. The Night's Watch's Castle Black garrison looked at their Lord Commander. "As you all know too well, it's long past time to dig a new latrine pit."

"Ha ha ha ha!" they all laughed, with the exception of a small dozen.

"First Builder Yarwyck and I have decided to appoint a latrine captain to oversee this crucial task. Brian! Seems like a good job for a ginger."

"Ha ha ha ha!"

Everyone laughed again; some of the men jokingly patted Brian on his back and Brian joined in the laughter as well.

"Ser Alliser."

Silence filled the room. All eyes slowly turned towards Ser Alliser Thorne, Master-at-Arms of Castle Black and former Acting Lord Commander. Uneasy tensions rose slightly as the two rivals locked eyes with one another. Stannis didn't bother to look the man's way nor did he pay attention to a visibly drunken Joffrey Baratheon, who wobbly stood next to Alliser—swaying from side-to-side to keep his balance.

_'Bastard abomination born of incest is at it again,'_  the older, sterner Baratheon lord observed.

"Ser Alliser," Jon repeated, "you have more experience than any other soldier stationed at Castle Black, more so than our newest arrivals despite their past decades of military service in lands south of here. You proved your valor many times over while defending the Wall from the wildling attack. I hereby name you First Ranger."

"Hear, hear!"

"Strong leadership!"

Some of the men shout in approval and hit their cups on the tables, there were some murmurs; Alliser looks up surprised at the appointment. Eddison, Grenn and Samwell look at each other in confusion. A small concession, to be sure—a gesture of reconciliation—but they couldn't help but question why Jon appoint someone they know he despises to a high-ranking position in the Night's Watch leadership? Historically the First Ranger is in charge of defending the Wall and tasked with ranging beyond it; he leads the rangers and answers to no one but the Lord Commander. The last person to hold the position was Benjen Stark under Jeor Mormont but went missing on a scouting mission beyond the Wall and never returned.

The only noticeable individual who did not approve of the appointment was Lord Stannis Baratheon, who felt as if his warnings about sending supposed enemies away were being ignored again.

"Joffrey," Jon continued. "I'm sending you to Greyguard with 30 men—10 from Castle Black, 10 from the Shadow Tower and 10 from Sentinel Stand. Commander Randar Merryweather will be expecting you."

Joffrey clumsily stood up and wiped his mouth, his red face flushed deeply—evidently plain to others that he is heavily drunk as he started swaying back and forth… and fuming. His green eyes stared at the Lord Commander, filled with spite and malice.

"Greyguard?" he spat. "You expect  _me_  to go to that blasted rubble?"

"Ah hell, not again…" Eddison groaned.

Grenn noticed. "

Jon held up a hand. "As you can see, the fort is nearing completion yet needs more men. Help Commander Randar restore it as best you can—"

Fool as he is, Joffrey interrupted rudely with an uncontrollable temper. "Keep your blasted fort and your sorry excuse of underlings! I am a Prince by right of birth, and I will  _not_  take commands from a lowborn bastard!"

Some of the men began talking loudly; others exclaimed admonishments at the insults. Olly, Jon's young steward, uncomfortably shifted in his seat.

"The audacity!" one of the Night's Watch brothers hollered.

"Unbelievable! How shameful!"

"What a disgrace!"

Eddison stood up. "Your open defiance and disobeying the Lord Commander is a display of conduct unbecoming of a sworn brother of the Night's Watch," he told him. "Not only that, but you've openly flouted about with our rules since the day you arrived."

"We all swore a sacred oath at the godswood to guard the realms of men from the dangers beyond the Wall every single day," Grenn agreed, "but you treated us like dirt or worse! You care for no one but yourself."

Jon slowly felt his impatience beginning to rise.  _'I'm giving you a chance to prove yourself, Joff. It is more than you or your family ever gave my sister.'_

"Alright, alright! Enough of that," Samwell tried to ease tensions.

"You mistake me, Brother Joffrey," Jon repeated. "This was a command, not an offer. Pack your arms and armor, say your farewells and ride forty leagues for Greyguard at the first light tomorrow morning. Commander Merryweather is  _expecting_  you."

"I said no!" Joffrey banged his sent his fist on the table and kicked his chair, sending over backwards. "I don't need to do  _anything_! I'll not go off to freeze even more and die in the cold! No bastard gives command to a Prince! Tell your Commander Merryweather to keep that blasted ruin or better yet send any one of the blind fools who cast their tokens for you, I will not have it. Do you hear me, bastard? I will not have it!"

"You will."

Joffrey didn't answer, but kicked the chair aside and threw his cup of ale across the room. Both Eddison and Grenn moved to restrain him. Ghost, Jon's albino direwolf, flattened his ears and snarled warningly—his blood red eyes trained on the aggressor.

"That's enough out of you," Edd grunted.

Grenn grabbed Joffrey's arm as he squirmed. "Knock it off!"

"Unhand me, you lowborn wretches!"

Stannis frowned, crossing his arms as he watched the insubordination unfolding in front of him. He cast a cold glance at Jon Snow, who watched the ruckus taking place. Iron Emett, Mully, Horse, Red Jack Crabb, Rusty Flowers and Owen the Oaf all moved from their seats to keep Joffrey under control—it wasn't much; considering that any one of them can easily overpower the disgraced Baratheon, but with the way he was behaving, both recruits and veterans alike had finally had enough of him.

"Brother Joffrey," Jon said firmly. His expression changed; his face casted a cold and stern expression. "This is your last warning. Cease your protests and have your horse saddled and bridled. It's a long, hard road to Greyguard."

One by one, the men in the room all turn to look at Joffrey who in turn took another at Jon Snow. Joffrey had little to no respect for his peers nor had he had any for the Night's Watch.

"Do it yourself, bastard! You've already got the mark of a beast on you, especially since you fucked that wildling bitch."

Jon felt his nerves twitch; not as a surprise, but his eyes were filled with cold, unbridled anger. "You are refusing to obey my order?"

"You can stick your order up your bastard arse," declared Joffrey.

Some of the men—including Samwell, Grenn, and Eddison—whisper in shock. Joffrey looked pleased with himself despite his deep intoxication. Stannis looked more disappointed and annoyed. Alliser Thorne turns to Jon smugly. At another table, Godry the Giantslayer began to laugh. Lord Commander Jon Snow, however, finally had enough at the rude insubordination.

"Take Brother Joffrey outside," Jon ordered. "Olly, bring me my sword."

Joffrey Baratheon's face went as white as milk and looks increasingly unsure of himself as more men got up from their seats to surround him on all sides without a second to spare. Olly turns quickly to Jon, then gets up to fetch Longclaw—a Valyrian steel sword once the heirloom of House Mormont and in possession of the late Lord Commander Jeor Mormont before the Old Bear passed it down onto his future successor. Eddison, Grenn and Emmett crossed the room, their footsteps stomped as chairs and tables were pushed aside. Alliser turns and looks at Joffrey disapprovingly and momentarily stands in Edd and Grenn's way for a moment.

Jon looks at the confrontation, slightly concerned. Grenn, meanwhile, was not too keen on the new First Ranger get in the way.

_'Go on, old man. Do it. I dare you,'_  Grenn thought.  _'Show your steel. Give me an excuse to do the same.'_

Half the men in the hall were on their feet. Southern knights and men-at-arms, loyal to Lord Stannis Baratheon or the red priestess Melisandre or both, and sworn brothers of the Night's Watch. For a moment, the world balanced on a sword's edge; Alliser eventually moved out of the way.

"Let go of me immediately!" Joffrey shouted. "You cannot do this! I am a Prince! I am a Prince, have you lost your mind?! Let me go!"

He was still protesting as they half-marched, half-dragged him outside. Garender the Lazy-Eye places a chopping block down as the Night's Watch brothers drag Joffrey up to it. Obedient to the laws and customs of his father Lord Eddard Stark, Jon Snow takes Longclaw from Olly and they both headed outside. Behind him, Stannis Baratheon followed closely and observed the scene from afar, surrounded by his household guards.

"Treasonous scum, all of you! If the bastard thinks he can scare me, he's very mistaken!"

Ghost followed close behind Jon, his white fur stood straight up and remained snarling at the disobedient brat who dared threaten and insult his master. At the courtyard, Joffrey wrenched loose for a moment and tried to make a fight of it, but Eddison caught him by the throat and slammed him against the wooden stump as Grenn and Iron Emmett held his arms tightly and kicked his legs out from under him. By then all of Castle Black had come outside to watch.

Joffrey continued his defiant resistance, but his movements quickly ceased when he saw Jon Snow clasped the hilt of his sword and unsheathed Longclaw from its scabbard.

"If you have any last words, Joffrey Baratheon, now is the time."

Eyes widened in fear, Joffrey twisted his neck around to look up at Jon from the chopping block. "P-please, Lord Commander! Mercy!" he screamed. "I'll go! I swear I will! Mercy!"

_'No,'_  thought Jon.  _'You closed that door.'_

He momentarily hesitated, but the Bastard of Winterfell fixed his nerve and raised Longclaw high with both hands and brought down his blade in a single swing – quickly beheading Joffrey. Once formerly the second in the royal line of succession, Joffrey Baratheon was stripped of all titles and powers and permanently exiled to the Wall by his own brother Daveth Baratheon for ordering the massacre of Robert Baratheon's bastard children; and again, for disobeying a direct order, he found out the hard way of refusing the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch's order – especially if they'd been raised as a Northmen who followed the traditions of the Old Gods of the Forest.

_"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,"_  Eddard Stark's voice rang through his head.

Jon Snow turned his head and notices Stannis watching him. For an instant their eyes met. The elder Baratheon gave him a slight nod in approval. Handing Longclaw to Olly, Jon marched across the courtyard to quickly catch up with Stannis on the stairs before he went inside.

"My lord, a moment if you will," he called out.

Stannis looked over his shoulder. "What do you want?" he asked.

"I hope it's not much, but might I ask you the use of your ships for a moment?"

"Whatever do you need my ships for?"

"Three years ago, the Night's Watch rode out in force to investigate rumors. We thought at first it was another wildling incursion, but… But what we saw at the Fist of the First Men turned out to be much worse than we thought."

"You mean White Walkers?"

Jon's eyes widened. "How did you…?"

Stannis Baratheon pointed towards Samwell Tarly, who still remained in the courtyard cleaning up the mess. "Your friend down there told me what happened during the hurried march back here. Doesn't look like a soldier, and didn't go into details but his wildling girl told me he killed a White Walker with obsidian."

"Then you know the dangers we face. It's strange, I know, and no one'll even listen. But this is the hard truth. For the first time in 8,000 years, the White Walkers have returned."

"So you say. Lady Melisandre told me back at Dragonstone that death marches on the wall."

"The Free Folk have seen them firsthand," he explained. "Sam has as well. The Free Folk can't stop them. Hell, the Night's Watch can't stop them. If we're to ever make it through this, we'll need all the help we can get."

Stannis still frowned stoically, listening to Jon's words. He wasn't as easily convinced, but he still held a sense of honor and respect for Jon's father Eddard Stark.

"We've just learned that many of the surviving Free Folk have who fled the battlefield begun gathering at Hardhome when you broke Mance Rayder's army," he continued. "It's a small fishing village on a sheltered bay along the Shivering Sea by Storrold's Point."

"And you want to use my ships to bring them here," the elder Baratheon realized. "Yet you're away that this act will deeply divide the Night's Watch. Your own men may turn against you for this."

Jon shook his head. "I know the risks, my lord, but I have to take it."

_'Sometimes you talk like Daveth,'_  he thought.  _'Only difference was is that the risks he took carried a much deeper impact should it fail.'_  "Then I hope you know what you're doing with these wildlings. I need those ships."

"You'll get them back, I swear it."

Stannis simply turned around and moved to speak with Melisandre. Whatever it was he told her, Jon knew he had to act fast lest the approaching winter grow increasingly worse than it already was in the lands beyond the Wall. Trekking down the stairs, Jon decided to pay a visit to the cells.

* * *

**Deep within Castle Black's prison cells…**

* * *

Sitting with his Free Folk brethren, the former King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder sat with Tormund Giantsbane. He found it hard to believe he'd be back in the cells of Castle Black or anywhere in Castle Black again considering his past; after all, Mance was once a noted ranger of the Night's Watch before deserting his post as a young man to unite the Free Folk tribes under his leadership. He looked down at the chains at his wrist before listening to the door hinges creaking.

Mance looked to see Jon Snow entering. Tormund and the other captive wildlings also noticed his arrival, most of them frowned deeply at his presence.

"So here we are," Mance noted the irony.

Jon nodded. "Here we are."

"When we first met you were my prisoner. And now, for our last meeting…"

"This isn't our last meeting."

"No? Last I heard our fate was to be decided by the new Lord Commander. But imagine to my surprise when Maester Aemon told me it was you. I'll give you this much: you're bold for doing this, Jon Snow."

"Shouldn't a King-Beyond-the-Wall be bold, too?"

_'Not thought of you as one to tell jokes,'_  Mance thought. "Oh aye, when the situation calls for it. Stupidity on the other hand does not qualify as a requisite. And it's hard to lead when you're in chains. But what brings you here to me in the cells?"

Tormund seemed to agree. "The Free Folk won't follow you or any of your crow brothers. They won't follow anyone else except Mance."

Jon smiled, hiding a laugh. "I don't deny it. Us Northmen are a bit like the Free Folk, actually."

"Oh? In what way?" he scoffed.

"We're loyal to no one but our own."

Tormund huffed, but Mance found the comparison to be slightly amusing. "Almost, but not always," he replied.

"But what if I unchained all of you?" Jon offered.

"Why would you do that?"

"You're not my enemy. And I'm not yours."

Mance looked somewhat reluctant. "I'm not having my people bleed for you, or Stannis Baratheon or any southern king."

Jon again shook his head. "You won't have to. You spent your life convincing 90 clans to come together for the first time in history. Thenns and Hornfoots, the ice-river clans, even the giants. A life's work uniting them. You didn't do it for power. You didn't do it for glory. You brought them together to save them because none of them will survive the coming winter, not if they're north of the Wall. For 8,000 years the Night's Watch swore an oath to be the shield that guards the realms of men. And for 8,000 years we fell short of that promise. The Free Folk belong to the realms of men. All of you."

Mance looked at Jon. Tormund, meanwhile, still looked unconvinced.

"And you expect us to believe things are going to change?" he asked.

"He wouldn't come to us if he didn't believe otherwise," Mance suggested.

"Why now?"

"Because  _I'm_  the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," Jon leaned forward, "not Ser Alliser Thorne." In his hands were a set of keys; kneeling down the Lord Commander turned the keys sideways.

Mance, Tormund and the other captive wildling prisoners heard a mechanism unlock and the chains fell free from Mance Rayder's wrists. The former King-Beyond-the-Wall massaged his sore, stiff hands and slowly stood up.

"I need your help," Jon requested. "I want the Free Folk to fight with us when the time comes."

"My people followed me because they respected me. Because they believed in me," Mance explained. "The moment I kneel for a southern king that's all gone. It's a worst fate since it goes against everything I believe."

"The day we ask our people to fight with the crows is the day they cut our guts from our bellies and make us eat them," Tormund stood up.

"I'm not asking you to kneel for anything or anyone. How many tens of thousands of your people are still out there right now? Trapped and in danger? How many women? How many children? How many of your people can't fight? The women, the children, the old, the sick… what happens to them? What happens to your people if we don't save them when winter comes and the White Walkers come for us all?"

Mance hadn't seen Jon speak with such passion before.

"The Free Folk need their leader," he continued. "And they need to get south of the Wall before it's too late. We don't have much time."

"Most of my people are at Hardhome," Mance mentioned.

"Yes, and I convinced Lord Stannis to lend us his ships to get them out of there. The White Walkers are coming and Hardhome'll be the first to get hit. Make peace to save your people."

Mance looked at Tormund before looking back at Jon. "Then you do understand why I fought long and hard to get my people south of the Wall?"

"I do," he nodded.

"You're a good lad. Truly, you are." He turned to Tormund. "Well old friend, you're coming with us. Ned Stark's bastard's coming with us too. Won't be easy, but the Free Folk there will need to hear it from me and the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They'll need to know the ships they're boarding won't be torched in the middle of the sea."

Tormund nodded. "He'll come with us, or we don't go."

Jon watched as Mance Rayder and Tormund Giantsbane began freeing their brethren from their chains.

_'The Night's Watch will never forgive me for this,'_  he thought.  _'But they haven't see what the Free Folk have seen. Not what I've seen…'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "His name was Joffrey Baratheon. He came to us from King's Landing, a Prince of royal blood who brought shame, disgrace and dishonor to his brother's house. And despite being a sworn brother of the Night's Watch, he did not always uphold the value of his oaths lightly. Of all recruits, he will always be remembered for his cruelty and lack of remorse – though none will even remember his name. And now his watch has ended."
> 
> Quite an ending scene where one's comeuppance finally catches up with them as Joffrey Baratheon finally meets his end at the hands of Jon Snow, once again demonstrating his cruel streak, had very little remorse at all and found it difficult to differentiate between what was right and wrong; or he simply didn't care about morals.
> 
> In the meanwhile, Jon Snow secures the aid of Stannis Baratheon and releases Mance Rayder and Tormund Giantsbane from captivity. As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon spares their lives and will continue on his mission to Hardhome to gather the remaining wildlings. Slightly rewritten, but Mance will not be burned at the stake by Melisandre. The stage is set for the confrontation at Hardhome; and you all know what that means?
> 
> The Night King is coming!
> 
> What are your thoughts on this? Let me know.


	92. Baratheon-Martell Peace Talks: Phase 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Negotiations between Dorne and the Iron Throne start wrapping up.

**In Dorne…**

* * *

The second phase of the diplomatic peace talks between Dorne and the Iron Throne were about to begin underway again; after the whole fiasco during the first phase, the revelation of Ariyana Dayne spying on the King on behalf of House Martell caused quite a bit of stir if not risk everything falling apart. Daveth stormed off in anger, only to be met with an assassination attempt on his life. Even Prince Doran Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne, knew that if something were to happen to the King then Dorne would again be dragged into another war. Of course, Doran was also concerned about the well-being of his son and heir Prince Trystane, as well, and how he was protected from harm too.

Back in the meeting room, Doran shifted in his seat to ease the discomfort in his legs. Gout had not been kind to him over the years; it swelled and reddened the joints of his knees, toes and hands. Oberyn stood next to his older brother with Ellaria Sand, their daughters and Doran's wheelchair in case Doran needed to move around.

Ariyana Dayne, still under investigation, couldn't meet Queen Sansa Stark's gaze—who sat across from her. Even veteran Kingsguards such as Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Jaime Lannister still hadn't forgotten Ariyana's involvement in spying on Daveth.

"This meeting would be more productive if the King were to join us," Ellaria complained.

Sansa looked at her with a calm, composed demeanor. "My husband will be arriving soon," she told her. "But what does concern us is the apparent lack of security which allowed the assassins to slip into Dorne undetected."

"My captain of the guard Areo Hotah is already seeing to it that no more outsiders try to enter my country in secrecy again," Doran told the Queen. "Remember, I'm more concerned about this since my son Trystane unknowingly had gotten himself involved in the altercation."

Olyvar Frey poured Sansa a cup of wine, glancing back at Tyene Sand. "We've identified the culprit behind the assassination attempt, my lords and ladies. I've seen this man at least once after we took back Moat Cailin. Locke."

"He's one of Roose Bolton's bannermen. What could he have hoped to gain from this?" the Wolf Queen suggested.

"Difficult to say, Your Grace, but the King believes it was his bastard Ramsay Snow who's really pulling the strings," he answered. "Says Lord Bolton is 'too smart for his own good to jeopardize his house's standing'."

"How can you be so sure of that?"

"Because Ramsay's worse than a monster. Worse than anything you could ever imagine."

By then, Daveth Baratheon had already made his presence known.

"Ah, Your Grace," Ser Lucius acknowledged. "Forgive us, we started without you."

"So I see," he stated plainly. "Trystane. How fares your jaw?"

Trystane shrugged it off. "A fleabite," he answered.

Daveth didn't buy it one bit.  _'What a poor excuse. You got your ass knocked out with one blow.'_

As the Young Stag sat beside his wife, the negotiations could once again continue. Sansa observed Daveth's posture, examining his body language; when he first stormed off, Daveth was slightly hunched forward and his hands curled into tightly balled fists. Now, his posture was straight and shoulders less tense, more composed. Let's just hope it stays this way until things have settled down for a moment longer.

"Allow us to extend our sincerest apologies for this mishap," Doran begun.

Daveth shook his head. "We both know who's to blame for this outrage, Prince Doran. Rest assured, the assassins were only puppets. Our true enemy merely pulls the strings from the shadows."

A Dornish servant assists Shae and Brella set down food and drink on the table before returning to their posts.

"Pie looks good," Olyvar commented.

Doran, Oberyn and Trystane took a plate of pigeon pie with Daveth, Sansa, Myrcella, Olyvar, Jaime and Lucius each taking a piece along with their respective goblets of wine.

"You appear to be much calmer this time," Oberyn said to Daveth.

"It belies a Baratheon temper," the Young Stag replied. "That, and my wife always kept telling me that suppressing one's feelings is not healthy."

"Wise woman."

Sansa rolled her eyes. "You're very kind, Prince Oberyn," she said politely.

"That aside, it is best that we continue where we left off," Doran noted.

It all became serious now. Daveth and Sansa listened closely as Prince Doran unveiled a parchment; a thoroughly worded treaty, it consisted of a list of terms and agreements that he believed would function as a compromise between Dorne and the Iron Throne.

"Now, I won't deny the fact that you are of Baratheon and Lannister descent and there are still some who remain unsure about you," he began, "but what doesn't change is the fact that you were the only monarch since King Daeron II to make any effort to reach out to us in Dorne spoke volume of one's character."

"159 years ago, House Martell got into bed with the dragons of House Targaryen," Oberyn mentioned. "As my brother said, we took Daeron and his sister for our own before they could take each other. That's how six kingdoms became seven. How you sent your own sister Princess Myrcella to us was almost quite similar, though not quite exactly similar to circumstances."

"Many in Dorne want war. But when Oberyn came back with the Mountain's head and when we learned of Tywin Lannister's… untimely demise, some of the grumbles have died down."

Oberyn's face changed expressions. "Our sister Elia Martell was a rare flower in our land. Hers had no thorn; she was kind and clever and had a gentle heart. Dorne loved her. We would've died for her, and her children."

"I've seen war. I've seen bodies piled on the battlefields. I've seen the orphans starving in the cities. I don't want to lead my people into that hell unnecessarily."

"When we swear oaths, we keep them. We needed no threats from King Aerys, though he made them anyway in his madness and condemned our sister and her children to their fate. We know that war is terrible and sometimes men must do terrible things to wage it… and to end it."

Daveth and Sansa said nothing as they watched the Martell brothers Doran and Oberyn speak. To them, perhaps there was somewhat of a lesson that needed to be told. The King held his wife's hand in his own, and she gave a gentle squeeze as reassurance. Jaime looked on grimly, while Lucius and Olyvar observed with wine goblets still in their hands barely touching their lips.

"Do you understand what we're trying to tell you?" Oberyn asked.

Sansa spoke first. "That mountains of gold or military force are not always the ways to sue for peace," she said.

The Red Viper nodded. "Correct. Whether by blood… or  _talking_  to us can it be possible."

"I know things will never be easy for you, my lords. Nor can we make promises we are unable to keep. But I do hope that we can achieve an everlasting peace between us and make amends so the Martells of Dorne and the Baratheons of King's Landing cadet branch may be friends."

Ellaria noted how Queen Sansa was speaking.  _'Break bread with the Baratheons, Lannisters and Starks,'_  she thought. Though the look Oberyn gave her told her that justice was already done; and there wasn't a need for more.

"That is my hope as well," Doran said. He placed the paper down onto the desk. "You've not only given us justice for our sister Elia along with her two children Rhaenys and Aegon, but also our uncle in the Kingsguard Prince Lewyn Martell as well. If you are indeed serious about wanting to reconcile with Dorne, if you want an alliance between us, then our terms must be met."

Daveth looked at the parchment. Sansa noticed and nodded her head.

"Of course, Prince Doran," she said. "The Crown will do whatever it takes to make things right."

"If an alliance between Dorne and the Iron Throne is to be kept strong," he said, "then the engagement of my son, Prince Trystane, and King Daveth's sister, Princess Myrcella, must stand."

Daveth looked at Myrcella and Trystane. The heir to Dorne locked eyes with the King; meanwhile, Myrcella practically looked at Daveth—who noticed her looking his way—and quietly mouthed the words "please" to him, begging her eldest brother to agree to the arrangement. The Young Stag sighed and nodded.

"Done," he said.

Myrcella smiled and hugged Trystane, who reciprocated the news as well.

"My son will be accompanying you to King's Landing as well," Doran announced.

Daveth raised a curious eyebrow. "You wish to send your only son and heir to the capital? May I ask why?" he asked.

"If the assassins come here again, then your sister and my son will need to be relocated somewhere safer—particularly within the walls of the Red Keep. Also, my brother Oberyn was named to the Small Council as Master of Laws before his resignation. Your grandfather understood the importance of working with one's rivals. With that seat still vacant, Trystane will take his place on the Small Council."

Daveth looked at Trystane. "What say you, Trystane? Are you up for the task?"

The young man nodded. "Of course."

"Then let's be certain that you're ready for such responsibility of being the Master of Laws. Your uncle Prince Oberyn proved himself capable, so you can imagine the expectations I have for you."

"Then you accept our terms?" Doran asked.

Daveth picked up his quill and dipped it in ink. "I will do whatever I must to ensure the realm's prosperity… and my sister's safety," he said quietly under his breath, pressing the tip onto the parchment.

Myrcella, Sansa, Oberyn and Doran watched on as Daveth moved his wrist with each stroke in specific directions, length and curvature relative of each letter he wrote down. The Young Stag's penmanship was as business cursive as it was fancy, each stroke precise and near perfect joined together in a flowing manner. Once he was finished, Daveth set the quill down.

"It is done," he informed them.

Doran switched the parchment around to face him as he took his own quill and ink to write down his own signature; the gout in his knuckles and joints made it difficult to write out each stroke, but Doran eventually finished his and put his quill away.

"And so it is done," he announced before raising his cup to propose a toast. "Let us drink to Daveth, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. May his reign be long and prosperous."

Everyone took a drink, even Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes. Daveth raised his cup, though he felt a wave of mental exhaustion wash over him—his vision temporarily blurred and felt a bit lightheaded; the Young Stag momentarily shook his head to rid himself of momentary distractions. Sansa and Olyvar, however, were the only ones to notice – the Frey squire was the first to lean in to whisper into the Queen's ear.

"I've seen him like this before back at Moat Cailin, Your Grace," he quietly informed her. "He passed out in the mud not long afterwards."

Sansa looked concerned. "Keep a close eye on him," she whispered. "Pray to the Old Gods and the New that it's not as serious as it once was."

Through sheer ounce of willpower, Daveth Baratheon had apparently pushed himself a lot harder to be absolutely certain that this one final task was seen through to the end: unifying the entire Seven Kingdoms: the North, Stormlands, Riverlands, Vale of Arryn, Westerlands, Reach… and now Dorne. Quite a monumental undertaking that involved years of careful planning and strategic, tactical and political maneuvering to get the results Daveth so desperately wanted. By nightfall, host and guests had finished their meals and traded in for the night.

The King had slept longer than most men ought to. Sansa never took her eyes off him for the entire night.

**– 5 Days later –**

A royal skiff waits on the Dornish sand to escort the royal party back to the royal flagship  _King Robert's Warhammer_  which remained anchored a few hundred yards offshore.

King Daveth, now donning his formal royal attire and given his arms and armor back, was more than eager to return home to King's Landing. His father's warhammer was strapped on his other shoulder to relieve discomfort towards his left where the assassin's dogs sank their teeth into. His left arm and shoulder were still in the process of healing so he didn't plan on pushing it, though some of his Kingsguard still didn't approve.

Ariyana Dayne's attire remained consisting of the Kingsguard, though her future in the royal guard remained in question.  _"We're going to have a long talk when we get home,"_  is all she was told. She wasn't trusted by her peers despite her claims of loyalty to the Crown  _and_  Dorne; she'd have to work long and hard to prove herself again to win back their trust.

Ser Lucius and Jaime Lannister watch as Myrcella Baratheon and Trystane Martell say their goodbyes to Prince Doran. Much to their surprise, Oberyn offered to accompany them to the capital with Ellaria and three of his daughters: Obara, Nymeria and Tyene Sand. Olyvar Frey had finished gathering their belongings for the oceanic voyage home. Trystane hugs his father; Doran kisses his future daughter-in-law on both cheeks.

Shae and Brella each carried the royal twins Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana in each of their arms; bouncing the babes, Lyonel and Cassana babbled as they gripped their mother's handmaidens with their tiny hands.

Ellaria Sand and the Sand Snakes begin boarding, no longer dressed in their warrior outfits but as proper women of the court. Tyene, of course, still teased Olyvar who kept his eyes glued at her swaying hips before snapping them back to attention when Queen Sansa caught him.

"That is  _very_  inappropriate, Olyvar," Sansa quietly scolded him, casting a cold death stare.

Olyvar gulped. "S-sorry, Your Grace," he apologized frightened.

Daveth and Sansa both approach Doran.

"I wish you a safe journey home," he told them.

"Thank you for having us here, Prince Doran," replied Sansa. "Will we see you at the wedding?"

"You will."

"This has proven to be quite an illuminating experience. Hopefully this is the start of a new beginning between our houses," Daveth told him.

"The feeling is mutual, Oathkeeper. I have enjoyed getting to know the grandson of a man I once called my enemy. Take good care of my son."

"You have my word." He soon turned to his family. "But there's something that needs to be done first before we leave."

Everyone looked confused.

"Olyvar."

The Frey squire stood at attention and approached the King.

"Yes, Your Grace?" he asked.

Daveth eyed him closely. "I haven't forgotten what you've done for both of me and House Martell back at the Water Gardens. I did say I'd see you rewarded for how you saved not only my life, but Doran's son's as well. Is there any boon you would ask of your King? If it's within my power, I will grant it."

Olyvar felt a bead of sweat trickle down his face. "I… I only seek to continue serving the Crown to the utmost best of my ability, Your Grace… if you'll have me that is."

He nodded. "Then kneel."

Obeying his King's order, Olyvar knelt down to one knee in a form of submission. He was unsure as to why, but heard the distinctive sound of Daveth unsheathing Stormbringer from its scabbard and felt cold Valyrian steel touching his shoulder.

"In the name of the Warrior I charge you to be brave," he recited the words. "In the name of the Father I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother I charge you to defend the young and innocent. In the name of the Maid I charge you to protect all women." The Young Stag then placed Stormbringer back in its scabbard.

Olyvar's eyes widened; he was visibly speechless. He knew what those words mean! Two years ago he started as a mere squire from a lesser house in service to his master, and here he was now a full-fledged knight! All those times training in combat with the King, fighting alongside the King in battle and acting as a page at the King's court… Olyvar's patience and dedicated service had finally paid off as he looked up at Daveth.

"You honor me, Your Grace. I… I don't know what to say," he stuttered. "I swear I will uphold the knight's code, protect the innocent, defend the weak and offer my services to you. I will shield your back, keep your counsel and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New."

Daveth nodded. "And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you into dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New. Arise, Ser Olyvar Frey."

Standing back up, Olyvar looked like he could barely contain his excitement at being knighted by the King himself. Sansa observed the ceremony firsthand and couldn't help but smile warmly at the oath of fealty; she couldn't deny Olyvar's dedication and service to the Crown. He's been a good, faithful squire and the Wolf Queen agreed that it was long past due to reward him for his role in saving her husband's life from assassins and on the battlefield. Olyvar then made his way onto the royal skiff for the long journey back to King's Landing.

* * *

**Aboard the _King Robert's Warhammer_ …**

* * *

  

In a guest cabin aboard the royal flagship, Princess Myrcella Baratheon sat in a lovely room decorated in royal attire. The walls were decorated with wooden stag antlers and golden lions as ornaments. Between her fingers Myrcella held a small pendant, opening the inside to gaze upon an old painting depicting her as a young girl being held in the arms of her eldest brother Daveth. She appeared to be 5 years old in the portrait.

_'We looked so happy back then, brother. Only because you made it so at your own expense,'_  Myrcella reminisced.

She hears a knock on her door and smiles, walking to the door?

"Trystane?" she calls out.

Two voices on the other side answer.

"Uncle Jaime."

"And your brother."

Ah. Not quite what she was expecting before opening the door. Both Jaime Lannister and Daveth entered her room.

"Sorry to disappoint you," Jaime apologized. "May I sit down?"

Myrcella slowly nods. Daveth closes the door behind them and leans against the wall as Jaime sits himself down in front of Myrcella.

"Do you two want something to drink?" she offered. "I don't have any wine, I don't think, but pomegranate juice or—"

Daveth raised his hands up. "No, no, no. It's quite all right. We're fine, 'Cella."

"You look nervous," Jaime observed.

She sits down on her bed; indeed, she does look nervous. Jaime notices the necklace and points it out.

"Still holding onto that trinket?" he tried to joke. "It's got to be about 14 years old by now."

"Now, now, no one said about holding onto something worth value," Daveth suggested as he pulled up the blue scarf around his neck, "particularly if it's of sentimental value to the one wearing it."

_'Ah, of course.'_  Jaime shook his head. "Just… try not to lose it. If it means something to you, always hold it close."

An awkward silence before another knock was heard.

"Excuse me, Your Grace," one of the crewmen called out, "but the captain needs to see you on deck."

"Very well. Tell him I'm on my way up," Daveth called out. "I'll… leave the two of you alone. I'll be back as soon as I am able. I promise."

"Take care, brother," Myrcella nodded.

Once Daveth exited the room, Myrcella was now alone with Jaime. He slowly clutched his arm and shifted uncomfortably, trying to think of what to say next.

"I know you didn't want to leave Dorne," he began. "But I'm glad you're coming home. Things… haven't been quite the same since you left."

Myrcella nods. She still looks nervous.

"And I'm glad Trystane's coming with us. He seems like a nice boy. You're lucky."

"I know," she answers.

Jaime felt his mind going blank. "Arranged marriages are rarely so, so… well-arranged."

Myrcella looked at him curiously. "Do you think Daveth likes him?"

"Ahh… ehhh, it's hard to say," he answered almost uncertain. "I guess it's difficult for an older brother to accept that his baby sister's all grown up, but… If he sees that you're happy, then I'm sure he will. I mean, have you ever known Daveth to like anyone, aside from you, Tommen, his wife and children?"

Myrcella laughs. "He has us," she counters.

"Not so sure about that. The definition of family's been changing a lot lately," he said awkwardly. Jaime scratched his head. "Listen… there's something I need to tell you. Something I should have told you a long time ago."

Myrcella watches him, waiting. Normally Jaime is more confident in himself, not unusually tongue-tied. Whatever was on his mind definitely was hard for him to get out.

"Now that you've seen more of the world, you've learned how complicated things can be. People can be."

"I know. Sansa told me everything that's happened."

Jaime shook his head. "No, no, that's not it," he struggled to make sense. "The Lannisters and the Martells have hated each other for years, but you've fallen in love with Trystane."

Myrcella has no idea what Jaime's talking about but she just watches and listens patiently.

"It was an accident, really. I mean, what were the chances? You happened to fall in love with the man you were assigned to marry? My point is, we don't choose whom we love. It just… it's, well, it's beyond our control." Jaime stands and paces across the floor, acutely uncomfortable. "Seven hells, I sound like an idiot right now."

"No you don't," she tells him.

Jaime gulped. "What I'm trying and failing to say—"

"I know what you're trying to tell me."

"No, I'm afraid you don't."

Myrcella stands up, her posture straight and in control of herself. Slowly, she approached Jaime and took his hands in hers.

"I do. I know about you and mother," she told him. "I know that Robert Baratheon is not my real father."

Jaime stares at her, unsure what to make of this. He obviously doesn't know how to play this.

"You… You did?" he asked.

Myrcella nods. "I think a part of me always knew. Daveth will always be my brother, but…" she stares up and smiles, "but I'm glad. I'm glad that you're my real father."

Ser Jaime Lannister felt as if the wind was knocked out of him. The fact that Myrcella told him without fear or hesitation that she was happy to know that Jaime was indeed in fact her biological father. Despite the two sharing the same mother but not the same father, Daveth Baratheon will always be in her eyes her 'big brother'.

Myrcella wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his chest. Jaime holds her tight, kissing the top of her head, fighting to hold back tears in his eyes. He pulls back to look at her beautiful young face, to see the way she smiles at him the way she does with Daveth.

For the first time in his life, Jaime finally understands the joy of fatherhood. And it's a pretty damn good feeling.

"What about the others? If… if they find out the truth—" he asks.

Myrcella thinks long and hard. "If you and Daveth both fear for my safety, then we can carry on the façade, at least in public; but it'll be our little secret. I promise, father."

Still feeling a twinge of what-ifs, Jaime simply held his daughter in his arms again. He didn't want this moment to end. All the long suppressed feelings the Kingslayer was forced to bury deep down, he didn't have to feel ashamed or distant anymore. He was finally happy.

Unbeknownst to them, Daveth Baratheon remained on the other side of the door. He had heard everything. Lowering his head and shaking it quick, he quickly walked away from the cabin and proceeded to the upper deck of the ship.

"And so the curtain rises. The opening number," he uttered to himself. "Take this moment to enjoy yourselves. Just don't make this any more difficult for me than it already is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No poisons, no deaths. Myrcella lives and Jaime is now enjoying being a father. A peace treaty has been signed between Prince Doran Martell of Dorne and King Daveth I Baratheon of the Seven Kingdoms, the Young Stag's 4-year long plan had finally come to fruition. The entire North, Vale, Riverlands, Stormlands, Westerlands, Reach and Dorne are all in the fold under his complete domain – but Olyvar Frey noticed he's beginning to show signs of stress and illness like he's shown before at Moat Cailin during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion. Still believe Daveth's been pushing himself too hard despite the advice of his counselors? Thoughts? Let me know.


	93. Young Cub and the Red Priestess

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Tommen Baratheon paced through the Red Keep main halls, often occasionally adjusting his collar and rehearsing his lines for the upcoming wedding to his betrothed, Lady Margaery Tyrell of Highgarden. Eager for his big moment once his older brother and sister-in-law returned from their trip to Dorne, some of the royal servants tended to Tommen—adjusting the collar of his golden attire.

"'I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days'," he practiced. "No, that sounds a bit squeamish…"

One of the servants chuckled. "Nervous?" she asked.

Tommen felt embarrassed. "Yeah… I mean, I'm marrying the most beautiful girl in the world, and it's all because my brother arranged it."

"Was it not Lord Tyrell who agreed to the match?"

He nodded again.

Another servant, on the meanwhile, seemed a bit more realistic. "Probably as his way of apologizing for what his son and heir, Loras Tyrell did to His Grace at Blackwater Bay."

"That was three years ago, Laisa. We all know Littlefinger orchestrated the whole thing."

"Who's to say another upstart won't try anything else, Grayce?"

"Because we know how fast His Grace would put 'em back in their place," she replied confidently. "Besides, we need to get the Prince ready for his big day."

Once they pulled away, Tommen looked in the mirror; the fourteen year old looked more like an eager puppy waiting for a treat. In his case, his treat was Margaery. He still hadn't forgotten that night when she snuck into his bedchambers in the middle of the night. At the same time, however, it made Tommen reflect back to Daveth's and Sansa's wedding at the Great Sept of Baelor… and his earlier lectures as well.

**ooOoo**

> Three months ago…
> 
> _"Tell me, Tommen. Just for the sake of argument, what kind of King would you want to be known as?"_  he asked.
> 
> _"A… a good one?"_
> 
> Daveth nodded.  _"Well, you've got the right temperament to be one should it ever occur. But what is the most important quality that does make a good King?"_
> 
> _"Holiness?"_
> 
> _"Huh. King Baelor the Blessed was holy and a pious man. He built the Great Sept,"_  he pointed out the window referring to the Great Sept of Baelor,  _"and named a six-year-old boy High Septon because he thought the boy could work miracles. He ended up fasting himself into an early grave because the fool believed 'food was of this world and this world was sinful.' Holiness, pah! What a joke."_
> 
> Feeling as if he gave the wrong answer, Tommen guessed again.  _"Justice?"_
> 
> Daveth knew his youngest brother was really trying his best; lenient as he wanted to be, even he knew he had to a bit strict with him and only gave a slight nod.  _"True, a good King must be just. Take Orys the First of House Durrandon for example; when the Stormlands were an independent kingdom, nobles and commoners alike applauded his reform. But even then it didn't last long. He was murdered in his sleep by his own brother after less than a year of ruling. Was that truly just of him to abandon his subjects to an evil he was too gullible to recognize?"_
> 
> _"No."_
> 
> _"No."_
> 
> _"What about strength?"_
> 
> _"Hmm. Strength. Our father was strong in his younger days. I mean, look at his greatest achievement: he rebelled against the Mad King and overthrew the Targaryen dynasty, a dynasty which lasted 300 years. He had a superb talent for fighting and had an impressive record on the battlefield."_  For a while Daveth spoke before shifting his tone to sneering condescension.  _"And yet he only attended three Small Council meetings throughout his 17 year reign. Three in seventeen years! He spent most of his time whoring, hunting and drinking until the last two killed him."_
> 
> Tommen gazed at the floor as he listened to his brother.
> 
> _"Now, we have a man who starves himself to death; a man who lets his own brother murder him; and a man who thinks that winning and ruling are the same thing,"_  he continued.  _"Which raises the question: now that you're aware of each of these King's flaws, what do they all lack?"_
> 
> Contemplating his words closely, Tommen thought long and hard and compared each of the past Kings strengths and weaknesses to each other. After a moment, he looked up to his brother again.
> 
> _"Wisdom,"_  he answered.
> 
> _"Yes!"_  Daveth praised.
> 
> _"Wisdom is what makes a good King."_
> 
> _"Yes. But what is wisdom?"_
> 
> Tommen felt floored again with being hit with another riddle and being unable to find his answer. Daveth approached his younger brother and placed a hand on his shoulder, causing the Young Cub to look at him at eye-level.
> 
> _"Do you know why I'm telling you this?"_  he asked.
> 
> He shook his head.
> 
> _"A wise King knows what he knows and what he doesn't. You're 14, still young. A wise young King listens to his counselors and heeds their advice until he comes of age. And the wisest Kings continue to listen to them long afterwards. If anything were to ever happen to me, it'll be up to you and Myrcella to pick up the pieces. Learn from me; learn from my mistakes so that you yourself don't repeat them."_
> 
> Tommen felt as if fear coldly gripped his heart and furiously shook his head.  _"'If anything were to happen…'? No, brother! Don't say that! We still need you!"_
> 
> Daveth shook his head.  _"Luck runs out on everyone eventually, Tommen. I can't always be there to hold your hand or protect you. The road ahead of us will be long and treacherous and you need to be ready to face it."_
> 
> _"How? Tell me, brother, what do I do?"_
> 
> _"You're going to have to figure that out for yourself,"_  he admitted.  _"Even I don't know the answer."_

**ooOoo**

Tommen thought about his brother's words every day since he could learn to walk—taking his lessons to heart; although kind, well-intention and trying hard to learn, Tommen still couldn't muster his heart to ready himself for hard times. But how?

"Prince Tommen?" Grayce asked, slightly concerned.

He shook his head. "It's nothing. I'm… I'm just tired," he replied.

"Should we draw you a bath?" asked Laisa.

"Please."

Once the servants left to draw hot water for a bath, Prince Tommen took a moment to himself—strolling down the main halls of the Red Keep. Throughout each corridor, Tommen passed by several of the royal counselors such as Varys, Grand Maester Pycelle, Randyll Tarly, Mace Tyrell… and his uncle Tyrion Lannister, the new Hand of the King. He couldn't help but possibly overhear the debate taking place.

"I'm telling you, it simply cannot be done until His Grace returns from Dorne," Pycelle suggested.

"The Dornish have been harassing our people in the Reach for centuries," Mace argued. "Who's to say that with the Martell's quick absence from this council they'd make another incursion in times of peace? On the eve my daughter is to be wed?"

"Oberyn has assured us that Dorne has no intention of escalating any further hostilities after concluding the Trial by Seven—one that ended with Ser Gregor Clegane's downfall," Ser Barristan countered.

"A-after he did him in with that—uhh!—horrid manticore venom," the Grand Maester revealed.

"My little birds whispered the strangest things to me," Varys mentioned. "They tell me that during the negotiations there had been a falling out which was soon followed by an assassination attempt on the King's life."

Tommen's eyes widened as he pressed his ear against the door. He gulped; someone just tried to kill Daveth?

"I knew it!" Mace bellowed. "I warned them not to trust the Dornish! Now they tried to pull off a treacherous act?! I mean, look at what they—"

"It wasn't Dorne, my lord," the Master of Whisperers shook his head. "Our spies' reports seem to indicate a renegade Northmen accompanied by his best hunters and several, vicious hounds. They were intent on separating the King from his personal Kingsguard."

"Is His Grace all right?" the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard inquired.

"The Oathkeeper sustained some wounds. Nasty dog bites that tore into his flesh and bloodied him, but I'm told the King not only stood his ground but also held them off long enough for Ser Lucuius  _and_  Ser Jaime to arrive with reinforcements. Apparently Prince Doran Martell's son Prince Trystane and Princess Myrcella have been caught in the middle as well."

Tommen clutched his arm tightly when he learned of his older sister being involved in the attempt as well. Relieved as he was that both his brother and sister were safe, it still troubled him that danger still lurked over his family.

"What happened next?" asked Barristan.

"Interesting wrinkle: Prince Doran and King Daveth resumed negotiations before signing a peace treaty. From what we can tell, Dorne has ended its isolationist policy and pledged the Iron Throne its full support once again."

"And thus the Seven Kingdoms are whole again," Randyll noted. "That aside, we have other security matters to deal with before the King and Queen return. I'll oversee the necessary arrangements with the City Watch."

"An admirable recommendation, Lord Tarly," Tyrion noticed, "but I'm afraid the full responsibility lies with the Master of Laws. Ser Barristan, do what you can until a replacement is chosen."

"I've been dealing with military and internal security affairs for more than 40 years! You've no right to reassign my troops."

"I have every right! I am the King's Hand."

Tommen quickly moved away from the Small Council chamber's closed doors and retreated into a further away room. His head was spinning with reports he overheard; the assassination attempt with his brother and sister's safety was the one that hit hard to home. In his haste to get away, Tommen had brushed past Grayce and Laisa – both of whom were equally confused with the Prince's behavior.

Nearing to the furthest door in one of the Red Keep apartments, Tommen turned the doorknob and opened it but stopped as soon as he saw a woman donning in a crimson robe kneeling down, praying in front of a lit brazier. She had a fiery red waist-length hair and her robe tightly hugged her body which displayed her attractive figure. Tommen felt his cheeks blushed slightly as she prayed in front of a red heart-shaped religious idol in a foreign language he did not understand.

"Āeksio, jehikagon aōha ōños ilagon bē īlva. Urnēptre īlva se ñuhoso. (Lord, shine your light down upon us. Show us the way)," she prayed in High Valyrian. "Tepagon īlva daor zoklākogon, yn irughagon īlva hen qringaomio. Āeksiot Ōño, tepagon īlva Sylvia. Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys. (Give us not temptation, but deliver us from evil. Lord of Light, give us wisdom. For the night is dark and full of terrors)."

Tommen tried to back away, trying not to disturb her. She immediately stopped and spoke up without looking at him, obviously aware of his presence.

"Enter, Prince Tommen Baratheon," she said in the Common Tongue.

Tommen froze, realizing he's been noticed by this strange foreigner. Regardless, his mannerisms took over and he cautiously stepped into her room.

"I'm sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

Her smile was warm as it was tender, though something about her frightened him. "It is no trouble at all." She stood from the floor and looked at the Prince.

Tommen was at least the same height as the woman. "How… do you know my name?" he asked.

"I know a great many things, young one. How I know is not quite as important as what my presence in this strange country entails, however."

"Who are you?"

"Ah, of course. My manners elude me. I am Vaeraleah, High Priestess of the Red Temple of Asshai, the Flame of Truth, Light of Wisdom and First Servant of the Lord of Light."

"So you're a priestess?" he said curiously.

"The incantation you heard just now gave me away?"

Tommen gave a nervous chuckle and scratched the back of his head. "It's just… You don't seem to look like any priestess I've ever met."

Vaeraleah raised an eyebrow. "According to whom?" she chuckled. "The Silent Sisters? With their stern looks, muzzled mouths and dried up cunts?"

Now the young Prince was starting to feel uncomfortable with Vaeraleah's mannerisms.

"I… I-I don't think that seems appropriate language to use. T-that isn't a religious thing to—"

Vaeraleah cupped Tommen's cheeks, slowly turning his head to examine him. "You share the same family name as him," she examined before releasing him, "but I see you neither have his looks nor the same physique."

The Young Cub massaged his cheeks, feeling as if a kind-hearted grandmother just pinched them. "Who?"

"Daveth Baratheon, the Oathkeeper. You only need eyes to see."

"How do you know my brother?" he quickly demanded, perhaps a bit too apprehensively.

Vaeraleah calmly paced the room, waving a hand over an unlit brazier. In an instant, the hot coals burst into flame. Tommen the intense heat emanating from the burning coals. This had to be some sort of magic, but who would believe it? He watched as she sat down in the nearest chair.

"He doesn't remember me, but I on the other hand was the one who saved him from a terrible fate," she answered truthfully.

"From what?"

"Death."

Tommen again shook his head. "How can that be when none of us here has ever seen you before?"

Vaeraleah interrupted. "It was seventeen years ago; long before you were born. The Greywater Fever epidemic, your lecherous old man calls it." She frowned, almost saddened. "Your late mother was desperate to save your brother's life. Whatever your maester tried, nothing worked. Poor little thing; he was so sick."

"I… didn't know," he said quietly.

"Why would you? You should know how your brother often tends to keep such sensitive matters to himself. The Queen didn't want me in the room alone with her firstborn son. Her love for her children was real than anything that could ever exist in this world. Fear, helplessness… Your mother was desperate, but only I knew of a way to cure him."

"What did you do?"

Vaeraleah motioned a hand to an empty seat, prompting Tommen to sit beside her.

"The methods I had at my disposal, they do not exist in your land. Those who see it dismiss it as magic, witchcraft," she explained. "But it was my connection to the Lord of Light—or R'hllor—as a High Priestess that allowed me to do the impossible. When I was alone with him, your brother was already fighting a losing battle for the right to live. Try as he might, I watched as he slowly went limp and his eyes closed, never to awaken."

_'What…? No! No, no that's a lie. My brother's still here,'_  thought Tommen incredulously, but kept listening.

He watched as an old bird flew in through the window, observing it no longer flapping its wings and flopped onto the table—dead. Vaeraleah noticed this and stretched out her right hand over the dead animal as Tommen looked on.

"Āeksiot Ōño, rȳbagon ñuha brōzagon se gis hen syndrorro jemagon (Lord of Light, heed my call and lead a soul out of darkness)," she incanted in High Valyrian. "Bisy's perzys ēza issare dīnagon hen gō zȳhon jēda. Āeksiot Ōño, stepagon aōha perzys se ōños se qēlītsos istin toil. Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson. (This one's flame has gone out before his time. Lord of Light, share your fire and light the candle once more. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life)"

A small light shined brightly from the palm of Vaeraleah's palm. Tommen narrowed his eyes and turned his head slightly, trying to keep the light out of his eyes. It lasted only a brief moment, but to Tommen's great surprise the bird he saw keel over spring back to life, chirping loudly and flew out the window. Unable to comprehend what had just happened, Tommen exchanged glances back and forth from the bird to Vaeraleah.

"H-how… How did you do that?" he stammered.

Vaeraleah smiled. "As I have said, young one, the Lord of Light has a deep connection to his most devout. Overzealous fanatics or any of our faith who strays too far from the true path by abusing the Lord's gift gives us a bad reputation. But it's only a connection with a High Priestess can his power can truly work miracles. In my case, the power of resurrection is exceptionally powerful. My magic can not only bring a deceased person back to life, but restore their health after they've been dead for several months. I knelt beside your brother's body, said the old words… and within moments the Lord answered my prayers. When I saw what future laid in store for your brother, I knew right then and there that he was the one of the Lord's three chosen champions."

Tommen shook. "You mean… you're using my own brother for your own means? For some… twisted religious experiment?"

"It is natural for you to feel this way, Tommen Baratheon, but I assure you that I or the Lord means your brother no harm. Take that for what you will. You'll understand why soon enough."

Feeling unable to understand the reality of what had just happened, Tommen stood from his seat and left the room in a bit of a hurry. He soon took his bath and spent the entire night with lots of questions about what's real or not. The story of his brother's illness before his birth, thinking what Vaeraleah's true purpose for being here is… It's a lot to take in; and Tommen certainly did not want this close to his big day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, the Young Cub Prince Tommen Baratheon shares his first encounter with the red priestess Vaeraleah before his wedding and witnesses her power up close. So now he's ending up with more questions. What do you think Daveth, Sansa, Jaime or any of the royal counselors on the Small Council will react when they hear of this? I imagine Varys will likely confront Vaeraleah about it only to be silenced when she tells him of the story of how he became a eunuch like in Meereen in the HBO TV series. Thoughts? Let me know.


	94. Rise of the Dragon Queen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys takes up the reins in Meereen; Gendry gets rescued.

**At Meereen…**

* * *

Meereen remained in a state of mourning. Within the Great Pyramid, Daenerys and her lover Daario Naharis stand in a dark room with only a few candles lighting the room. Both of them stand over the body of Meereen's queen, heroine and greatest slave liberator—Queen Saqnizza Dhardu—who died of injuries sustained fighting Sons of the Harpy. Bells outside tolled and its denizens mourned her loss, former slaves and moderate ex-slave masters alike; the slaves cried "mhysa" meaning "mother" in the Old Ghiscari language.

Hizdahr zo Loraq, one of the former aristocratic slave traders in the city from an ancient and proud wealthy bloodline, walked into the room behind Daenerys and Daario to pay his respects and offered his condolences—not just for her, but for Saqnizza as well.

He lowered his head submissively.

"Word has already spread throughout the city, Your Grace. The people mourn the loss of their beloved monarch," he curtsied. "Saqnizza was… an admirable woman. Most heads of the noble houses might not have agreed with her, but we respected her for her spirit."

Daenerys didn't turn to face him. "The slave masters called her the 'Rebel Queen,' but the people we helped free knew her as 'Mhysa'. We didn't always see eye-to-eye on how best to free the former slaves and give them a future of their own," she said simply, "but I learned a lot from her. She was a good mentor." She frowned angrily. "And she died in an alley to protect those she freed from the chains of slavery, butchered by cowards who hide behind masks."

"We could pull back to the pyramid district, secure it and use it as a base from which to operate," Daario suggested, walking over to Daenerys. "Then we clean the city out, neighborhood by neighborhood, street by street, until the rats have nowhere left to hide. It's the best we could do to avenge Queen Saqnizza and deliver the people of Meereen justice they're entitled to."

The Dragon Queen looks over her shoulder and nods. "I prefer your earlier suggestion," she agreed. "Round up the leaders of each of Meereen's great families and bring them to me. One of them has to be clandestinely backing these insurgents."

"But… I'm the leader of my family," Hizdahr realized.

In that instant, two Unsullied march up behind Hizdahr and grab him roughly, restraining him as he is being led away whilst the former slave master protested loudly.

"No, Your Grace! I had nothing to do with this! Your Grace!"

One-by-one, each of the city's noble household heads were gathered and escorted beneath one of the Great Pyramids' Dragon Chambers—some came voluntarily whilst others were dragged into the chamber forcefully. Each of the men were uttering things to each other, asking why they were brought in for questioning when Meereenese still mourned. No doubt most will likely demand answers to their questions; with Saqnizza out of the way, there are no doubt some would easily accuse Daenerys of attempting to seize power.

The chamber was dark, with only Daario holding a lit torch. After a few moments, the Second Sons leader follows closely behind Daenerys, some Unsullied and a number of men. Daenerys turns around and looks directly at the gathered nobles, with only a distinct sound of chains rattling breaking the silence.

***RATTLE!***

"Geron naejot (Walk forward)," she ordered in High Valyrian.

Each of the Unsullied lowered their spears at the other men threateningly.

"Ao daor gaomagon bisa (You cannot do this)," one of them exclaimed.

_The Unsullied begin walking forward, forcing the men to move. After a few moments, they stop. Chains rattle again._

***RATTLE!***

"Mēre tolī dekūra (Another step)."

The Meereenese were pushed further again by the Unsullied; Daenerys walked through them to the front of the group as they heard more chains rattle and dragons snarling. This terrified the nobility as they finally realized where they were being led to.

"Kessi ipradagon ao, lo nyke ivestragon zirȳ naejot. Kostis ipradagon ao sesīr lo nyke don't. Riñar. Mirri ivestragon eman tepagon bē va zirȳ (They will eat you, if I tell them to. They may eat you even if I don't. Children. Some say I should give up on them)," Daenerys explained. "Yn iā sȳz muña dōrī tepagon bē va zirȳla riñar. Ziry qilōnarion zirȳ lo ziry ēdruta (But a good mother never gives up on her children. She disciplines them if she must.)"

She glances over at Daario, who walks over and pushes one of the mumbling terrified men forward onto his knees.

"Yn ziry gaomas daor tepagon bē va zirȳ (But she does not give up on them.)"

The man's eyes widen as the dragon coming out of the shadows is none other than Rhaegal; jade-green and bronze scales with yellow-orange colored wings, he grew considerably larger during his captivity along with his brother Viserion—easily towering over the group of humans standing in front of him. Rhaegal's sharp teeth shined a bright orange hue in the darkness before the dragon opened its mouth and breathed fire on the Meereenese man. He erupted in flames, screaming loudly as he did.

"AAAHH! AAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"

Both Rhaegal and Viserion stalked closer before tucking in, sinking their teeth into the man before fighting over their meal and ripping him in half. The Meereenese nobles were utterly horrified at the scene, either covering their eyes and mouths with shock or simply turning their heads to look away while taking occasional glances at the savage scene. Even Daario and Missandei looked equally disgusted, but Daenerys glanced over her shoulder towards the nobles.

"Qilōni iksis mijegon? Kostilus mirre hen iksā, kostilus nyke ivestragī se zaldrīzoti udligo. (Who is innocent? Maybe all of you are, maybe none of you are. Maybe, I should let the dragons decide)."

Hizdahr, still trembling, spoke out half-heartedly. "Valar morghūlis (All men must die)."

The other men besides Hizdahr grovel before Daenerys. The dragons continue eating. After a moment, Daenerys eyes Hizdahr up and down as Rhaegal and Viserion chomped down and tore the carcass apart. She then switched to using the Common Tongue.

"Don't want to overfeed them. Tomorrow perhaps," she said sarcastically.

Daario and the Unsullied take the men out. Daenerys watches her dragons eat for a moment, and then walks out herself.

The next day, however, word of what happened spread throughout the streets of Meereen. Dozens of free citizens gathered outside the Great Pyramid, demanding answers.

"Ziry drī hae se uēpa āeksia (She acts like the old masters)!" one of them protested.

"Se Muña Zaldrīzoti pendagon ēza īlva skoros's sȳrje syt īlva, yn zirȳla actions ivestragon lodaor! (The Mother of Dragon thinks she has our interests at heart, but her actions say otherwise)!" another shouted.

"Īlon iepagon qilōnarion (We demand justice)!"

"Daenērys Jelmāzmo narejozlivis Dāria Saqnizza iōragon syt lēda zirȳla gaomagon zaldrīzoti hae qilōnarion (Daenerys Stormborn dishonors Queen Saqnizza's memory with her use of dragons as punishment)!"

Daenerys did not expect word to spread so fast. She believed that she had Meereen's interest and the interest of its people at heart when she sentenced a former slave master to death, but was met with strong opposition from the local populace. The Dragon Queen watched as the Unsullied and Second Sons guarded the entrances to prevent an all-out riot from breaking out in the streets. Daenerys recognized that she might have made a mistake and had to make things right. All part of the lessons of ruling; taking a moment to compose herself, Daenerys donned a white dress with a silver dragon pin on her shoulder and walked over to meet the protestors.

"Uh, I don't think it's safe for you to be out here. They're really pissed at you," Daario implied.

_'Normally I'd have agreed, but this is a problem I have to solve if I'm to rule the Seven Kingdoms,'_  she thought. "Quptenkī hen Mīrīn, rȳbagon nyke (People of Meereen, hear me)," she addressed them in High Valyrian, "Īlon mirre ilimagho se rēbagon hen īlva jorrāelagon dāria saqnizza. Sir, tolī than mirre, istiti iōragon hēnkirī— (We all mourn the loss of our beloved Queen Saqnizza. Now, more than ever, we must stand together—)"

One of the leading protestors rudely interrupted her. "Kesi daor sagon—! (We will not be—!)"

"Lyka! Ivestragī zirȳla ȳdragon! (Quiet! Let her speak!)" a moderate chastised.

"Ziry's iā quptenka! Ziry's daor mēre hen īlva! Dāria saqnizza dōrī ivestragī iā quptenka— (She's an outsider! She's not one of us! Queen Saqnizza would never let a mere outsider—)"

"Lyka! (Quiet!)"

Daenerys understood she had to pick her words carefully. "Iksan gīmigon bona iksan iā quptenka (I'm aware that I'm an outsider)," she spoke. "Nyke gīmigon bona nyke ȳdra daor sytilībagon kesīr. Ēdan daoriot else naejot jikagon, yn īles dāria saqnizza qilōni gūrotan nyke se ñuha azantys isse skoriot ziry emagon ilzitan īlva hen onto se geralbri (I know that I don't belong here. I had nowhere else to go, but it was Queen Saqnizza herself who took me and my people in where she could have thrown us out onto the streets)."

Murmurs were slowly dying down and silence flooded the streets as the Meereenese looked on.

"Nyke iēdrosa pendagon skorkydoso se buzdari āeksia treated vali, ābrar, riñar se hen quba mijegon; nyke iēdrosa pendagon se riñar nailed naejot guēse va se sikagon hen oktion (I still remember how badly the slave masters treated men, women, children and elders. I still remember the children nailed to wooden crosses on the outskirts of the city)."

Whispers spread among the free citizens who still carried with them the memories of their treatment when the Great Masters still ruled Meereen, along with at Astapor and Yunkai.

"Nyke could daor iōragon naejot urnēbagon pōja cruelty jikagon mirre dombo hae toil mijegon botagon. Mirri hen ao qilōni vīlībāzma lēda Dāria Saqnizza iēdrosa umbagon lēda īlva. Sesīr lo ziry's daor lēda īlva dombo, kosti rigle zirȳla lēda īlva. Nyke kivigon naejot ao kesi mazverdagon ziry paktot zirȳla (I couldn't stand by and watch their cruelty go any further while more innocent suffer. Some of you who fought with Queen Saqnizza still remain with us. Even though she's not with us anymore, I swear to you we will avenge her)."

Slowly but surely, few Meereenese started applauding which slowly grew in even greater numbers. Cheers and reassurances that the people will get the justice they so desperately wanted for as promised, Daenerys raised a hand up.

"Se dovaogēdy, Tȳni Trēsi se se oktion urnēbagon kessa arghugon ilagon se Trēsi hen Jazdanī kessa sagon arghugon ilagon se kessa addemmagon syt pōja quba. Se pār … (The Unsullied, Second Sons and the city watch will hunt down the Sons of the Harpy will be hunted down and will pay for their crimes. And then…)" she paused for a moment, "se pār Mīrīn kessa iderēbagon iā arlie dāria (and then Meereen will choose a new Queen)."

Heckles and jeers were replaced by applause and cheer.

"Ñuha ondor ōregon kessa mērī mērī sagon mība. Skori se Trēsi hen Jazdanī issi maghatan naejot sepār se se buzdari āeksia issi daor qringaomio, Mīrīn kessa umbagon dāez. Syt sȳz. (My reign will only be brief. When the Sons of the Harpy are brought to justice and the slave masters are no longer a threat, Meereen will remain free. Permanently.)"

***CHEER!***

***APPLAUSE!***

"Dohaeragon īlva gaomagon īlva dāez (Help us keep our freedom)!"

"Maghagon ilagon se Trēsi hen Jazdanī (Bring down the Sons of the Harpy)!"

"Syt se Mysha (For the Mother!)"

"Syt Dāria Saqnizza (For Queen Saqnizza)!"

Daenerys Targaryen smiled and waved as the Unsullied and Second Sons began assisting the Meereenese City Guard spreading word. The search for Queen Saqnizza's killers was already underway and once the threat was dealt with, Meereen will be free to select a new sovereign from one of their own ranks. For now, at least, the city-state was under the control of Daenerys Targaryen. She looked at Daario.

"Take me to him," she requested.

Her lover looked visibly annoyed, but did as he was told. Being escorted by Grey Worm and Missandei, Daenerys opened the Great Pyramid's door to the dungeons and stepped inside, revealing a frightened Hizdahr zo Loraq who immediately threw himself at her feet.

"My, my Queen, please don't kill me!" he begged.

"How pathetic…" Daario rolled his eyes.

Daenerys looked down at him with the calm composure of a ruler. "What about 'Valar morghulis' (All men must die)?"

"I did not want to die," Hizdahr sobbed. "Apparently I do not want to die at all."

"It takes courage to admit fear. And to admit a mistake," she told him. "I'm here to tell you I was wrong about what I said. I was wrong and Saqnizza was right, about tradition, about bringing the people of the city together. As the interim Queen of Meereen, my first act, of course, will bringing her killers to justice. During that time, I will reopen the fighting pits… to free men only. Slavery will never return to Meeren, not while I live."

"Yes, my Queen. As you wish, my Queen."

"And in order to forge a lasting bond with the Meereenese people, I will marry the leader of an ancient family."

Hizdahr nodded.

"Thankfully a suitor is already on his knees."

Daario felt his eyes widen. "Wha…?" he looked confused.

Hizdahr looked surprise at the announcement. Daenerys faintly smiles and then leaves, leaving both men with the door wide open. Once by herself, Daenerys massaged her temples—feeling a headache coming.

"One thing leads to another…"

* * *

**At Dragonstone…**

* * *

Darkness fell upon the island of Dragonstone; with only lights shining out from King's Landing in the distance.

Still remained confined to his cell, Gendry was rather upset. Used and tossed aside, wanting to join a worthy cause only for the Brotherhood Without Banners to turn on him and hand him over to a woman he never met, and now tossed into a cold, hard, unforgiving cell for seemingly no reason at all. Gendry yanked at the chains at his ankles and threw loose pebbles at the wall. The guard paid no mind and was fast asleep, his wine jug slipping through his fingers.

 

Gendry snorted.  _'Every time some noble looks for me, they want to kill me.'_

He heard silent footsteps approaching his cell before a loud bonk and a groan. Turning his head, the prison guard was knocked out and slumped to the floor. Gendry glanced up and saw a tall, well-built hooded figure looking down at him as they picked the lock.

"This place not to your liking? Let me guess: Stannis Baratheon was mean to you?" the voice was feminine. "Locked you in here and threw away the key?"

Gendry didn't answer, watching only as his apparent savior bent down to pick up the guard's keys. He shook his head.

"I should've known that every time a highborn asks me my name, it's trouble," he complained.

She felt sympathetic. "What makes you say that?"

"Why do I have to answer to you? I bet you're just another highborn lady. We're not really people to you. Just ways to get what you wa—"

***BONK!***

She hit Gendry on the top of his head, making the young apprentice blacksmith wince slightly. The young woman did not appreciate such unfair accusations.

"I am  _not_  a highborn, nor am I a lady," she said. "I'm a bastard. Just like you."

_'Great… Mouth open, foot first,'_  he realized. Gendry might've had his own faults and he knew when he overstepped his bounds. The memory of Bodrin getting stabbed while he was being taken away still bothered him.

"How did you know I'm a bastard?"

"I just do."

"Then… who are you?"

The young woman removed her hood. She had short black hair and blue eyes, looked about six years older than Gendry, and her attire was more masculine and consistent of leather instead of the traditional porcelain or silk dresses.

"The name's Mya. Mya Stone," she introduced herself.

"Mya… Stone?"

"All bastards born in the Vale of Arryn carry the surname 'Stone' provided that their father acknowledges them first."

"You're quiet a long way from home," Gendry pointed out.

Mya shrugged, trying to fit one of the keys into the lock. Her frustration grew. "Tell me something I don't know," she groaned. "Got a letter from the Riverlands sent to us from some old man. Bodum, Berim… I can't remember."

Gendry's eyes shot up. "Bodrin?"

" _That's_  the name."

"He's… he's still alive?"

"Believe me, if he wasn't then Lord Royce wouldn't have sent me down here to break you out of this hellhole."

Feeling a wave of relief and guilt flooding over him, Gendry felt as if his heart sore to greater heights when Mya Stone informed him that Bodrin was in fact still alive and sent a raven to Runestone. The fact that it was a fellow bastard helping him, it sent him a signal that he was not alone.

"Well look at you. Black hair, blue eyes… you almost look just like me," Mya pointed at him.

Gendry shook his head. "Why're you telling me this? I mean… what's your point? What did Bodrin tell you about me?"

Silence befalls the dungeons before Mya grunts, listening to some birds cawing outside.

"Just plain and simple really: find a bastard on Dragonstone, sneak in the castle, get him out. But when your friend's letter explained  _why_ , I was kinda tickled pink."

Gendry said nothing as Mya finally unlocked the cell and helped him out. Sneaking quietly past the guards, he felt now that it would perhaps be the only time to ask questions.

"So why did you?" he whispered.

"Why did I what?" she asked quietly.

"Why did you really come all the way down here just 'cause some lord told you when it was really my friend who asked 'em? This Royce fellow you're father or something?"

Mya shook her head. "Lord Yohn Royce is not my father," she answered. "Only vague memories I had of him was when I was a little girl. Tossing me in the air, catching me…"

"You're lucky. I never had a father growing up. Never wanted one. Was born when he grabbed my mother instead of the girl next to her in the tavern, telling her he'd…"

"…promise her the world."

Gendry blinked. How did she know that? Treading down a flight of stairs leading to the outside, Mya got a sense of why he brought that up as she brought ashore a small row boat.

"Haven't you ever wondered where your strength came from?" she pressed suddenly. "How I can tell you have a talent for fighting like me?"

_'My strength came from learning how to be a blacksmith,'_  he wanted to tell her. "I'm a lowborn."

"So am I, yet do you hear me complain?"

"My mother was a tavern wench."

"Mine was a commoner."

"I ended up becoming a blacksmith's apprentice. For a time. You?"

"A guide leading trains of mules through the dangerous, treacherous rock climbs from the Vale to the Eyrie. Made the dark climb a hundred times without an accident."

Gendry felt comfortable with the conversation with Mya Stone going the way it is before blurting out. "You said we looked almost alike. Why?" he asked. "Are you saying my father was some lord or…"

Mya looked at him before pointing in the direction of King's Landing. "His house was the Red Keep. Didn't you know that by now?"

"I'm just a bastard," he insisted. "Just like you."

"Yet you have the same blood as me," she pointed a finger at his chest

Gendry shook his head. "Wait, are you telling me…?"

Mya nodded. "Yes. We are the bastards of Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men; which in a sense makes me your half-sister. Why else do you think your friend Bodrin went out of his way to get you as far away from the massacre so badly?"

At that moment, Gendry felt himself at a loss for words and felt an inkling of hope grow within him. Whatever reason for, he did not know.

"Which means…?"

"It means that our current King, Daveth Baratheon the Oathkeeper, is our trueborn brother."

_'This-this is… I-I have a sister? A brother?'_  he thought to himself, noticing his hands shaking slightly.  _'I have a family… A real family!'_

"Get in the boat," Mya broke his concentration. "I'll take you to Rook's Rest. That's as far as I'll go. Where you decide to go from there, it's up to you."

Gendry shook his head. "Where will you go?" he asked.

"I have to go back to Runestone. Let your friend know your safe. Just… don't drink seawater, okay?"

"I know not to drink seawater!"

"Good."

"What about the red woman? The lord of this castle… I mean, our uncle?"

"They're not even here, and besides they can't touch you if you learn to keep a low profile."

"Fine, fine."

"You ever been in a boat before?"

"No."

"Do you know how to swim?"

"No."

Mya groaned. "Just sit in the center and don't shake the boat or we'll both fall out and drown."

Gripping the oars, Mya found her tempo and rowed backwards bit by bit. Gendry did his best to keep his weight centered to keep the boat steady and felt thankful for this chance to live and meet relatives he didn't know he had. The Street of Steel, the Riverlands… the places Gendry traveled to with Bodrin seemed like a distant memory. But perhaps for the first time in his life, Gendry felt that he was no longer alone. He had friends and a family; perhaps he'd like to meet his brother someday once things have settled down.

_'I'm Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son,'_  he told himself.  _'King Robert's my father…'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys Targaryen and Gendry make a return in this cameo chapter; the Dragon Queen temporarily assumes power in Meereen on the promise of hunting down the Sons of the Harpy and quelling the Great Masters and slave masters' incursion into the city-state. Her plans are put on hold until the situation quiets down.
> 
> Also introducing into the storyline is none other than Mya Stone, Robert Baratheon's bastard daughter when he was fostered in the Eyrie. She was the one who broke Gendry out, got him to safety and told him the truth of their heritage. Think this'll affect any future interactions they might have if they meet Daveth face to face? Next chapter will include Daveth, Sansa and the royal party's return to King's Landing. So stay tuned for more. What do you guys think? Thoughts? Let me know.


	95. More Trouble is Brewing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daveth Baratheon falls ill; Ramsay Snow makes his move.

**Aboard the _King Robert's Warhammer_ …**

* * *

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Daveth stood in his private chambers with his family—holding his daughter Cassana. Sansa held their son Lyonel in her lap with Myrcella playing peek-a-boo with her nephew. The twins were nearly a year old and had grown from infancy to entering the first stage of toddlerhood; their teeth were growing in, their black hair were growing (though Cassana's had been even longer and straighter with a tiny strand depicting the Tully color). Lately, one in particular was being a bit playful.

"Where's the baby?" Myrcella said, covering her face with her hands before moving them away. "There he is!"

Lyonel giggled at his aunt's antics. Sansa smiled as she bounced her son on her lap. Jaime Lannister, meanwhile, looked on at this family gathering whilst the ship was one week away from returning to the capital.

"Where's the baby? There he is!"

Daveth looked on as his son let out another wave of giggles. The Young Stag was looking more tired and slightly pale; his left arm didn't ache, but he still often felt a slight pinch on his shoulder from where the assassin's hounds bit him. A Tyroshi healer on deck, Serella Vhassaar, checked on him earlier believed it to be the case of emotional exhaustion and had recommended he take at least two or three days to rest and inform her if there were any complications.

"Dada," Cassana piped up, patting her hands against Daveth.

He looked down at her. "Yes, firefly, I see you."

Sansa smiled as she watched Daveth poke Cassana's tiny nose, listening to their daughter squeak with surprise before giggling whilst stretching her hands out—snuggling against her father. The warm sight was soon interrupted when a tiny pair of hands reached up and grabbed her red hair, tugging downward quite roughly.

"Ow, ow, ow!" Sansa winced, gently unfolding Lyonel's hands from her hair. "Sweetheart, don't pull on mama's hair like that, all right?"

The male twin looked amused. "Mama," he simply said to her.

"No, Lyonel, no; that wasn't very nice."

Jaime found this somewhat entertaining. "Well, well; seems as if he's got a natural talent for roughhousing."

Sansa rolled her eyes, visibly not amused. "My, how funny you are as of late, Ser Jaime. Need I remind you that raising children is harder than it looks the older they get?"

"Figuring that you grew up with three brothers, you'd be more accustomed to handling boys."

Myrcella chimed in. "Well, I think you two have been doing a very good job at raising them."

"Well, you're not the first to tell us that," remarked Daveth wearily. "Bringing children into the world and raising them is not as easy as one might think."

They all noticed his tone of voice. He sounded so… drained; burned out.

"Dearest…" Sansa spoke up.

"Come now, Sansa. Don't give me that look—"

" _Dearest,_ " she repeated more firmly.

Daveth sighed, knowing he wasn't going to win this argument this time. "Fine… I'm just worn out. The journey these last four years has been… very long."

"Perhaps a bit too long for some of us," Myrcella suggested. "Maybe once we've all returned to King's Landing, the two of you could afford to use some personal relaxation time?"

The Wolf Queen appeared to nod her head in agreement. "I concur. Our duty has been keeping us from spending quality time with our loved ones for quite some time now. With peace restored to the Seven Kingdoms for good, sometimes the most productive thing we can do is relax; especially with the children."

 _'Oh, how I wish that were possible…'_  the Young Stag thought to himself. "Then, I suppose being selfish for a while couldn't hurt…"

Jaime glanced at his nephew; somewhat surprised with his compliance, he knew Daveth was never the kind of person to just sit down on his laurels doing nothing. Yet the Kingslayer suspected this was mostly for his health, to get his mind off the tasks at hand just to get him to relax for a moment.

"Which reminds me," he begun, "isn't your first anniversary just around the corner?"

"Already? Feels like as if it were just yesterday," exclaimed Sansa.

"Well, I should get you something nice," Daveth offered.

"Please, dearest, you don't have to go out of your way for me. Already have what I want: you, and our children."

Cassana gave a quiet yawn and rubbed her eyes. Daveth looked down at his daughter climbed up to bury her face in his neck.

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Should we take that as a cue to leave you two alone for a while?" he asked.

Myrcella stifled a teasing chuckle. "If you wanted privacy, all you needed to do was ask."

"Very funny, 'Cella." the Young Stag shot back.

Teasing aside, Myrcella stood from her seat and hugged her brother and poked her niece's cheek.

"Be good to mommy and daddy now, all right?"

Cassana looked confused as she watched her aunt leave the room with Jaime following close behind her. Now alone with his wife, Daveth shook his head. He was slowly becoming more tired as the day went on; glancing out the window, he watched the bright, sparkling light of the sun reflecting from the water waves of the Narrow Sea and listened to the sound of the waves brushing against  _King Robert's Warhammer_. Sansa carried Lyonel on her hip, stood up and approached Daveth.

"Daveth," she brushed his shoulder.

"Yes?"

Sansa brushed her hand across Daveth's forehead, brushing his black hair upward before pressing her brow against his. The Young Stag felt the tip of his nose touching his wife's, knowing full-well that she was taking his temperature. If he tried to push her away or attempt at lying, she'd immediately know about it and call him out for it.

"Hmm. You do feel a bit warm," she said. "Tell me. Are you actually feeling alright? Don't tell me otherwise just to make me feel better. I know you."

"Dada?" both the twins whined.

Daveth shook his head, transferring Cassana to Sansa. "No," he admitted. "No, I don't feel well at all. I'm tired, my shoulder hurts, my throat's dry… and now I've got a headache."

The Wolf Queen carried both twins on each hip, hoisting her posture straight upwards. Leaning her head downwards a bit, Sansa narrowed her eyes slightly and noticed a stitch was coming undone. "I'll send for Serella and have her check on you."

Before Sansa could leave to fetch the vessel's onboard healer, she heard her husband call out from behind her.

"I'm sorry."

She raised a curious eyebrow. "For what?" she asked.

Daveth turned to look up at his wife. "For putting you through so much—whether it's by my words or actions. Kept problems private and locked away; tried not to make an issue out of it. I thought I was keeping you safe at the time, in spite of everything, but I realize now that all I did was made you worry. Can you forgive me?"

Sansa felt a pang; taking in what Daveth admitted to her. How long was he keeping this to himself? Had it been years ago, she would've pressed on the matter even further. But now that she's grown, matured… a full-fledged mother and a Queen, Sansa had learned more than many appeared to have let on.

"Dada?" the twins piped up again.

"I don't think less of you, if that's what your concern is," Sansa said. "But what I do know is that you care about me—about  _us_ , our children—in your own way."

"Sansa—"

"I forgive you. Just… don't keep anything hidden from me again. If something's bothering you, then tell me."

Daveth nodded. "I promise."

Sansa understandingly nodded, pleased with her husband's self-reflection throughout their long journey. "Now unless if there's anything else you'd like to share with me, then I suggest you get to bed and try to get some rest. I'll get Serella."

Daveth gripped the arms of his seat and stood up, making his way to the bed in compliance with Sansa's request. As soon as he kicked his feet up and lied down on his back, Daveth watched as his wife and children took off.

"Dada," he heard Cassana call out once more from the hallway.

The Young Stag inhaled through his nostrils and exhaled through his mouth. Bringing his right hand up, Daveth placed his knuckles on his forehead—clearing his throat which soon turned into a dry, rough cough; Daveth's chest started hurting as he coughed up more phlegm. He shut his eyes tight, momentarily, before reopening them and turned his head sideways to avoid direct contact with sunlight.

"Ah, Seven hells…" he groaned.

Brushing his hand against his brow, Daveth started sweating and his eyes were looking as if they had started becoming bloodshot. He felt miserable; shoulder still ached, his bones felt like they were made of napalm, he couldn't keep his thoughts as he felt a strange taste in his mouth. Daveth's face twisted and contorted, feeling as if a foreign liquid iron-like substance assaulted the back of his throat and taste buds.

After another round of hard coughing, Daveth stuck two fingers into his mouth. Pulling the digits out, the Young Stag was surprised at the thick red coloring on the tip of his fingers. Blood!

 _'Fuck… No, no, no,'_  he privately complained to himself.

Roughly throwing his head back on the pillow, ignoring the pinch in his shoulder, Daveth wiped his mouth with a napkin, cleaning his hand and tried to get some sleep… to no avail. Indeed, he felt miserable.

But one thing was a certainty: King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name… was ill; the worst he's ever felt since the Greywater Fever epidemic seventeen years ago.

* * *

**At the Dreadfort…**

* * *

Further in the North, in the forest surrounding the Dreadfort, the seat of House Bolton, three dogs were barking in the distance. A peasant girl was running through the forest in a state of panic, panting heavily and tears streaming down her cheeks. She wore a white dress, but was so dirtied from the grass stains, mud and puddle backsplashes; her blonde hair hung past her face as she leaned against a tree.

"Tansy!" a female distant voice called out to her from far away. "Tansy!"

"Tansy!" a male voice called out.

***ARF-ARF!***

***RUFF-RUFF!***

Desperation and fear gripped the young woman tightly and she immediately started running as fast as her legs could carry her again. Behind her, three dogs barked and growled loudly as they chased after her. Behind them, however, ran Ramsay Snow with his sadistic lover Myranda, armed with a bow and arrow and holding hands with one another.

Ramsay and Myranda appeared visibly happy, excited and enjoying themselves. One of the Dreadfort's servants crept up behind them, feebly trying to keep up. The hunting dogs continued barking.

***ARF-ARF!***

***RUFF-RUFF!***

"Tansy! Tansy!" shouted Ramsay.

Tansy runs through the woods, the hunting dogs barking in pursuit. In her desperate attempt to escape, she nearly trips over a tree root and exclaims.

"Aaah!" she shrieks.

"Ah! There you are!"

"Nooo!"

Myranda sadistically laughs. "I can't see her, Ramsay!"

Thoughts flooded through Tansy's head; she was a servant of House Bolton in servitude to Lord Roose and was one of his bastard son's Ramsay Snow's bedwarmers. She did everything Ramsay told her, whatever he wanted. But when she was told that he grew 'bored' of her and took her onto a hunt, Tansy realized that she was next on the list: along with Violet and Kyra. She was about to be killed for sport! Tansy quickly hid behind a tree, trying to catch her breath.

Ramsay and Myranda, with bows in hand, each fire arrows at Tansy as they go.

***T'CHI!***

***SCHHWAFF!***

"AAaH!" she shrieked and ran off again. Ramsay's arrow strikes the tree, just inches from her face.

"If you make it out of the woods, you win!" Ramsay exclaimed gleefully. "Run, Tansy, run!"

Myranda expertly notches an arrow and lets it fly.

***T'CHI!***

***TWANG!***

The arrow flies past Tansy, who stumbles down into a muddy stream, gasping and screaming. She scrambles on all fours in panic, hands and knees, pausing only for a few moments to hide in one of the nearby shadowed stream beds, sobbing.

"Tansy!"

"Where is she?"

Looking left and right for any possible escape routes, Tansy quickly turns to notice the hunting dogs barreling down the stream towards her.

***ARF-ARF!***

***RUFF-RUFF!***

Shrieking and whimpering, Tansy runs again. The dogs chase her through a small tunnel and back into the woods proper.

"Tansy, Tansy, Tansy!"

Stretching her bowstring back, Myranda takes aim and fires off another arrow with concentration and precision.

***T'CHI!***

***TWANG!***

***WOOSH!***

***THUNK!***

"GAAAHH!" shrieked Tansy.

Myranda's arrow landed a direct hit in Tansy's right leg, sending her fall down into the ground hard. She sobs in agony, clutching her leg with the arrow penetrating her skin and stained her dress with blood. Unable to move and left completely helpless, Tansy cried as the three hunting dogs surrounded her on all sides and closed the gap—still barking and bearing their teeth at her, terrorizing her.

This sudden end to the hunt allowed Ramsay, Myranda and their servant to finally catch up.

"Good girls," Ramsay beckoned to his hounds. "Down, girls.  _Down_. Well done." He turned to Myranda. "You, too."

"I only wounded her," she stated plainly.

"You brought her down. That's what matters. A fine shot. Wasn't it, Dontar?"

He nodded. "A fine shot, Lord Ramsay. My lady."

"Please, my lord! It hurts!" sobbed Tansy, referring to the arrow in her leg.

Ramsay noticed. "Oh, sweet. Don't cry. It will be over soon."

Myranda notches another arrow and takes aim, pulling it back in her drawstring. "She thinks she's pretty. Let me put one through her face."

The Bolton bastard, however, stopped her. "We have to reward the hounds, love. They did all the hard work?"

"Why?" Tansy beseeched through her sobs, pleading for mercy with fear in her eyes. "I did whatever you asked!"

"But you made Myranda feel jealous."

"Me?" she said, a bit taken aback. " _Jealous_  of  _her_?"

"My lord, please!"

Ramsay turned to Tansy, turning from jaunty to mocking the terrified girl with a sadistic grin on his face. "You can see that your presence has become a bit of a problem." He quickly turned ferocious. "Rip her!" he ordered. "Rip her! Rip her!"

One by one, the hunting dogs lunged at Tansy and started tearing her to shreds. Her screams filled the air as one bit into her leg, the other clamped down onto her arm whilst the third sank its teeth into her throat and tore it out; Tansy's shrieks were silenced as she gurgled on her own blood—splattering everywhere as her lifeless body shook and trembled as the hunting dogs resumed their feasting.

"Not so pretty now," Myranda commented.

Ramsay Snow grinned wickedly at the sight. Today was a good hunt. Sounds of ripping flesh filled the woods. As the Bolton bastard watched his hounds, a meek messenger from the Dreadfort limped his way through the forests.

"P-p-pardon me, L-Lord Ramsay," he said.

Quickly feeling irritated at his hunt being interrupted, Ramsay quickly glared at him. "What?" he said indignantly.

Fumbling his hands through his sleeves, he pulled out a rolled parchment.

"Lord Bolton has… has requested your pr-presence. S-says it's i-important."

"Fine…"

Agitated that his hunt was brought to an end by his father's orders, Ramsay and Myranda and their hounds were eventually led back to the castle of Dreadfort. In the courtyard, the Bolton bastard had already dismissed his lover Myranda back to the kennels where her father was waiting him.

Standing by the gates, Ramsay watched as his father Lord Roose Bolton and his new stepmother Lady Walda of House Frey, who is clearly intimidated by her new surroundings. She had a kind face, though she was quite large and round—clearly as seen as she needed help dismounting from her horse. He couldn't believe how fat the woman in front of him was, but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut as they dismounted and approached.

"Father," he greeted. "You wanted to see me?"

Roose Bolton, now a bearded man, coldly stared at him. "Walda, this is Ramsay Snow, my bastard."

Ramsay smiled, stepping forward to kiss her cheek. "A pleasure to meet you, mother."

"Oh, uh, hello," Walda said feebly, smiling awkwardly.

"See that the horses are fed, watered and rubbed down. And take Lady Walda to her chambers," the Lord of the Dreadfort instructed a nearby servant.

"This way my lady."

As soon as Walda and the servants were finally out of earshot, Roose guided Ramsay inside the Dreadfort. He sat down by the fire, aching and exhausted.

"Well?" he demanded.

Ramsay look dumbfounded. "'Well' what?"

"I know about Locke. His escape."

Ramsay frowned; clearly knowing that Roose had figured out of Locke's release from confinement. The Bolton bastard suspected that deep down he knew the plan to assassinate Princess Myrcella Baratheon, to start another war… had somehow must've ended in failure. Otherwise his father wouldn't have approached him like this.

"I leave the Dreadfort in your hands during my absence," Roose continued, "and when I returned I find myself facing more criticism and accusations."

"You can't let these lesser lords get to you, father," he deflected.

"If it comes down to another war, and should it be primarily focused up here, then we don't have enough men to hold the Dreadfort if the entire North decides to attack us. Do you understand that?"

"Our last agreement with the Starks and the Oathkeeper ensured that—"

Roose cut him off abruptly. "I had to make a multitude of concessions to our fellow Northmen to ensure that House Bolton's social standing wouldn't be jeopardized, and parleying alliances into greater power," he scolded Ramsay. "I had to make a pact with Daveth Baratheon after liberating Moat Cailin during the war and yet word had already traveled fast about a 'renegade Northmen's assassination plot' in Dorne. Locke was one of my best hunters, and you played your games with him. You played your games with my own men. Do you think lifting a siege is the same a facing a prepared, provisioned and united Westeros?"

"No."

"Word of this cannot be allowed to spread any further. If it does, a reckoning will come. House Bolton remains in servitude to House Stark, and the Starks have a Queen. The North won't bother reasoning with us if they believed one of their own is threatened."

Ramsay thought of an idea, and fast. "I'll have a team of men to ensure that what happened was just a rogue madman. Nothing more. And House Bolton had absolutely nothing to do with it, even swearing by both the Old Gods and the New that we remain in good faith in compliance with the pact we made."

Roose looked unconvinced. "I placed far too much trust in you," he said simply. "Do what you have to to quiet the rumors and be swift. I'll not have my banners dragged through the mud with another one of your games again."

Leaving the room in a huff, Ramsay went into his chambers and slammed the doors loudly. Gritting his teeth, his father's scolding only served to confirm his suspicions that Locke had indeed failed his mission and a reprisal was bound to arise at some point.

"Ah, no matter," he uttered once he calmed himself down. "This changes nothing in the end. Father wants the rumors to be silenced, then they'll be no more."

Kneeling down, he threw back a curtain to revealed a tied up and gagged, Jeyne Poole. Ramsay had captured them during one of his hunts and discreetly brought them to his private chambers in the Dreadfort, avoiding Stark sentries in the progress. Her father, Vayon Poole, was also taken captive and tied up on an x-shaped wooden cross, also gagged into silence.

"Word has already spread about a  _third_  Stark just up and vanishing without a trace. Heard the Young Wolf himself is rather unnerved by it all. Can't say I blame him, but what does it matter?" he grinned, pressing a knife at Vayon's cheek. "You know, my mother taught me not to throw stones… but my father taught me, 'aim for their head'!"

Vayon tried moving his head away, but Ramsay forced it back down. Jeyne, meanwhile, muffled protests and pleas but was simply ignored.

Ramsay continued his menacing torture. "Then again he also told me, 'A naked man has few secrets; a flayed man, none.' Such as when my ancestor Royce Bolton the Fourth dealt with his enemies when he pulled out their entrails. I admire that."

Removing the knife from Vayon's face, Ramsay surprised both by shoving his knife deep into the elder Poole's gut and disembowels him in front of his daughter Jeyne, tearing his insides apart and killing him. Jeyne shouted behind her gag, visibly distraught at the brutal murder of her father before Ramsay turned his gaze towards her.

"Oh? If you think this has a happy ending, you obviously haven't been paying attention." He pressed the blood-covered knife at her dress, tearing it slightly. "I have a role I'd like for you to play. To pretend to be someone you're not."

Jeyne remained motionless, stricken with fear and grief.

"You will be Arya Stark from now on. And you… are  _mine_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get rid of one problem and another takes its place. In this case, there are two. One, the dreaded illness that almost killed Daveth when he was a child is believed to be coming back though the Tyroshi healer apparently had no idea about this; the second, Ramsay is on the move again with his sick, twisted plotting. How will this reach Winterfell or even Sansa Stark's ears—being stuck in a difficult position. How will the Starks themselves react to the news? Thoughts? Let me know.


	96. Stags, Lions, Wolves and Roses! Oh My!

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Word had already arrived to the court, preparations were being made for the inevitable return of the royal family from their voyage to Dorne. Prince Tommen Baratheon, in particular, was among the first of many to stand at the shores of King's Landing… eagerly awaiting to greet his older brother and sister. Tommen hadn't seen Myrcella since her departure from the capital. In accordance with Daveth's decision, Tommen's wedding to Margaery Tyrell would begin once he came back and Myrcella's to Trystane would begin a fortnight after his.

Whilst overlooking several documents, Hand of the King Tyrion Lannister shuffled about and readied himself for his eldest nephew's return. Accompanying him were the Master of Whisperers, Varys, and his uncle, Ser Kevan Lannister—now having assumed full command of the Lannister armies.

"Still, the reports we've been getting have been… very odd," Tyrion remarked.

Varys had his hands folded in his sleeves. "Stranger things have happened, my friend. My little birds tell me things are proceeding as discreetly as possible, and word has already been sent to the North ahead of schedule."

"Meaning the Stark boy will likely determine what has happened. I'd expect quite a vicious retaliation from his part, considering current events."

"Oh, no one disputes that, not even the multitudes that often worry they might be next."

Tyrion, Varys and Kevan walked down the steps towards the bay. "It's almost funny," he mused. "My brother was the youngest Kingsguard in history at the age of 16. My sister became Queen at 19. When I reached manhood, my father put me in charge of all the drains and cisterns in Casterly Rock."

"A most highborn plumber," the eunuch remarked.

"The water never flowed better. And all the shit found its way into the sea. I never expected to have any real power. So when Daveth named me Hand of the King—"

"You're quite good at being Hand, you know? Jon Arryn and Ned Stark were good men. Honorable men. But they disdained the game and those who played. Lord Tywin was a brilliant administrator and a master strategist, but even he had his flaws. You enjoy the game."

"I do. Last thing I expected."

"And you play it well."

As they saw the  _King Robert's Warhammer_  coming into view, the party arrived with the rest of the Small Council—waiting for the King, Queen and their entourage disembark. Even moments before the ship even reached the dock, Tyrion and Tommen both felt something was wrong; eventually, they see Sansa wrapping Daveth's right arm over her shoulder to help keep him steady with Myrcella and Jaime assisting them.

The Young Stag's face was so pale some color appeared to have been drained; he had developed dark circles under his eyes and was bloodshot as if they were inflamed. Daveth could hardly stand with his knees slightly buckling and had experienced shortness of breath.

Tyrion, looking concerned, approached them. "What's going—?"

"Grand Maester, take the King to his chambers. See what you can do for him," Sansa hurriedly ordered. "Serella, try to convince the Septas to lend us get any medicinal herbs you think can help us."

"What's wrong with my brother?" fidgeted Tommen.

"Daveth is sick, Tommen," Myrcella answered. "We're trying everything we can to make him feel better, but he's steadily getting worse."

Delirious and somewhat disoriented as he may be, Daveth shook his head—still retaining his awareness as his body continued fighting off whatever illness he had. "That's… putting it nicely," he coughed.

Tyrion looked at Jaime, the Kingslayer nodding his head in agreement with the current situation. They both had seen this illness before and moved into action. Ser Barristan Selmy, meanwhile, approached the royal party and extended his arms out.

"I'll take him," he suggested.

Sansa hesitated, but nodded understandingly as she gently transferred Daveth over to the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. The Young Stag groaned slightly and felt queasy, shutting his eyes and placing one hand over his gut—trying not to get the sudden urge to vomit. Pycelle, stretched out his arms, the maester's chains chinking against each other with each step.

"Eh, uh… C-come now, Your Grace," he stuttered. "Let's get you taken care of."

Before they left to tend to Daveth's illness, the Young Stag glanced over his shoulder. He looked physically weak, but still gathered enough strength to get several words out.

"Tyrion," he called out. "As I'm to be… *cough, cough!* indisposed, you'll… you'll need to chair the Small Council meetings in my stead."

Varys, Pycelle, Barristan and Randyll Tarly looked to Tyrion, but they each steadily nodded at the situation. Daveth had more to say.

"And one more thing," he continued. "Begin making preparations… *cough, cough!* for the wedding at once. *cough, cough!*  _Two_ , in fact."

"For whom?"

"One for Tommen and Lady Margery, and the other… for Myrcella and Prince Trystane."

Myrcella and Tommen looked to their brother. "Daveth, are you… sure?" they asked, somewhat concerned.

He nodded weakly. "I promised to ensure you two were wed upon my return… *cough, cough!* I intend to keep that promise."

Both didn't say anything nor did they protest, instead watching as Daveth was eventually led away by Serella and Pycelle. The twins Lyonel and Cassana each made a small sound of discomfort, with Cassana stretching out her hands in her father's direction—her upset squeaks led to her becoming fussy which in turned to her being visibly upset.

"Dada," she whined.

Sansa's heart ached. Daveth loved her and their children and was no longer in a position to spend time with them; understandably so, considering his current condition. Once he was better, they'd make up for lost time. Shae and Tyrion noticed this and approached her.

"Don't worry, Your Grace," Shae reassured her mistress. "We'll take good care of him."

"Do what you can for him," Sansa told her. "Lyonel, Cassana… they both need their father."

"I know. We'll keep you aware of his state."

Ser Arys Oakheart of the Kingsguard, having accompanied the royal party back from Dorne, ventured off to the side with Jaime, Barristan and Lucius to discuss security details. Olyvar Frey, a newly anointed knight, opted to stand guard over the King to ensure any suspicious characters would not be permitted entry unless told otherwise. Brella accompanied Sansa throughout the gardens of the Red Keep.

"Dada, dada, dada," Cassana continued pouting.

Sansa bounced each of her twins. "I know, sweetie, but your father's not feeling well."

"Dada! Dada! Dada!"

"Shhh, shhh."

No matter how much Sansa hushed, the twins continued to whine and fuss. It was then that the Wolf Queen was paid an unexpected visit.

"Children being fussy again?"

Sansa blinked and rose her head up. Standing before her was none other than Lady Margaery Tyrell, Prince Tommen's betrothed. She was clearly caught off guard for a moment; indeed, Margaery is regarded as extremely beautiful with thick and curling brown hair, large brown eyes and a slender but womanly figure. Fair and lively, Margaery had a sweet smile.

"You are Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, are you not?" asked Sansa.

She nodded. "I am, Your Grace. I've been arranged to marry the King's brother, Prince Tommen for some time. You look radiant this morning."

"Thank you for your kind words, Lady Margaery."

"If it pleases you, Your Grace, won't you call me Margaery? We're going to be sisters soon. Are those two the perfect little angels?"

Sansa looked at her.  _'True, but why tell me this at this hour?'_  "Yes. This is my son, Prince Lyonel," she said before trading glances to the other twin, "and my daughter, Princess Cassana."

"My, aren't they just adorable?" she said and took Sansa by the hand.

She rose from her seat in the gardens and accompanied Margaery. "Where are we going?"

Before she got an answer, Sansa recognized they were being escorted to a private meeting in the gardens. With the castle so crowded, on the edge of a yard held two banners depicting the sigil of House Tyrell, a golden rose on a green field. Outside its tall carved doors stood two guards in gilded halfhelms and green cloaks edged in gold satin, the golden rose of Highgarden sewn on their breastplates. The Reach personal guardsmen were of wide of shoulder and narrow of waist, magnificently muscled.

Taking a few more steps in the private gardens, Margaery brought Sansa before a wizened white-haired doll of a woman at the head of a table.

"Your Grace," she spoke, "it is my honor to present my grandmother: the Lady Olenna of House Tyrell."

Sansa recognized Olenna as the Queen of Thorns from one of her earlier conversations with Daveth months ago.  _"Olenna Tyrell might be an old woman, but her mastery of court politics, plotting and intrigue are almost on par with my grandfather Tywin Lannister. DO NOTunderestimate her!"_  he warned her. Had Daveth told her a few years ago, her naiveté would have brushed such warnings aside, but Sansa had grown and matured over the years and had taken her duties as Queen seriously enough. This would be her first encounter with the Queen of Thorns.

Olenna smelled of rosewater. "Kiss me, child," she gave a warm, grandmotherly smile. Dutifully, Sansa kissed the old woman on the cheek. "It's so good of you to visit me and my foolish flock of hens."

"Thank you for having me, Lady Olenna," Sansa greeted courteously.

"I knew both your Stark and Tully grandfathers, Lords Rickard and Hoster, though not well."

"Lord Rickard died before I was born, but… Lord Hoster had been struggling from a prolonged illness for quite some time."

"I am well aware of that, Your Grace. Still, night falls for us all in the end, and too soon for some. You and the King have each had your share of grief, I'm sure. We are sorry for your troubles once we heard of Daveth's ailment. The Reach is praying for his swift recovery."

Sansa glanced at Margaery.  _'How did…? Word travels fast,'_  she thought. "You're very kind to say so," she answered. "And I would like to extend my apologies for Lord Renly, Lady Margery. He was very gallant when I first met him."

"You're very kind to say so," replied Margaery.

Olenna snorted. "Gallant, yes, and charming and very clean. He knew how to dress, bathe and smile and somehow this gave him the notion he was fit to be King," she sniffed. "The Baratheons must have a queer notion, to be sure; must stem from either their hot-headed temperament or their distant relations to the Targaryens."

"Renly was brave and gentle, grandmother," Margaery pointed out. "Father liked him and so did Loras."

"Loras is young and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick," Olenna said crisply, "That does not make him wise, especially considering how lucky he is to still have his head attached to his shoulders after foolishly challenging the Oathkeeper in single-combat at Blackwater Bay. As to your fathead father…"

"Grandmother! What will Queen Sansa think of us?"

Sansa felt the atmosphere shifting, with each mention of the Stag Sedition as well as the Battle of Blackwater Bay brought forth long, old bitter memories. Some people just don't know when to let go of the past and move forward, lest they face the risk of reopening old wounds; especially if it hits close to home.

"She might think we have some wits about us. One of us, at any rate," the old woman continued before turning back to Sansa. "Look, I already told Daveth that I warned my family that what they were doing was treason. Robert has three sons and Renly has an older brother. How can he possibly have any claim to that ugly iron chair? 'Tut-tut', says my son, 'don't you want your sweetling to be Queen?' You Starks were Kings once, the Arryns and the Lannisters as well, and even the Baratheons through the female line to the Durrandons, but the Tyrells were no more than stewards until Aegon the Conqueror himself came along and cooked the rightful King of the Reach on the Field of Fire. If truth be told, even our claim to Highgarden is a bit dodgy, just as those dreadful Florents are always whining. 'What does it matter?' you ask, and of course it doesn't, except to oafs like my son. The thought that one day he may see his grandsons on the Iron Throne makes Mace puff up like… now, what do you call it? Margaery, you're clever, be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that queer fish from the Summer Isles that puffs up to ten times its own size when you poke it."

"They call them puff fish, grandmother."

"Of course they do. Summer Islanders have no imagination. My son ought to take the puff fish for his sigil, if truth be told. He could put a crown on it, the way the Baratheons do their stag, mayhap that would make him happy. We should have stayed well out of all this bloody foolishness if you ask me, but once the cow's been milked there's no squirting the cream back up her udder. So here we are to see things through. And what do you say to that, Sansa?"

Sansa replied, "But if I'm not mistaken, the Tyrells can trace their descent through the female line back to Garth Greenhand of the First Men 10,000 years ago during the Age of Heroes, who not only founded House Gardener but also became the first King of the Reach."

The Queen of Thorns snorted. "So can the Florents, the Rowans, the Oakhearts, and half the other noble houses of the Reach. Garth liked to plant his seed in fertile ground, they say. I shouldn't wonder that more than his hands were green."

"Your Grace," Margaery broke in, "you and your children must be very hungry after such a long journey back to the capital. Shall we have some lemon cakes?"

Sansa felt her stomach growl a bit. Lyonel and Cassana reached out their hands, fussing about. Her maternal instincts suggested they must be hungry too. "Lemon cake's my favorite," she admitted.

"So we've been told," declared Lady Olenna, who obviously had no intention of being hushed. "We'll be sure the royal children have some food in their bellies as well. Coren, are you going to bring the food or do you mean to starve us to death? Here, Sansa, come sit with me. I'm much less boring than these others."

Sansa felt herself being almost unable to respond to each request, blinking slightly at the Queen of Thorn's barbs being hurled all around. Normally her initial thoughts were to address Olenna on her mannerisms, but Lyonel and Cassana fussed some more—obviously demanding they be given something to eat so Sansa's primary focus was on them for a while and knowingly accompanied Margaery and Olenna to a more remote section as the Reach servants brought out a broth of leeks and mushrooms with a side dish of sweets for Lyonel and Cassana to eat and Lady Olenna pushed herself forward to rest her elbows on the table.

"Here you go, sweeties, eat up now," Sansa cooed to her children, taking occasional each spoonful to feed Cassana and Lyonel some sweetened (prepared with little sugar to ensure the children eat healthy) porridge; the twins shared the same visible reaction to tasting strange products.

Margaery and Sansa tried to hold back a chuckle when Lyonel and Cassana's face twisted before Sansa wiped their messy face with a napkin.

"Do you know my son, Your Grace?" Olenna asked. "The Lord of Highgarden?"

"Lord Mace? We've met on several occasions at court when my husband named him Master of Coin," she answered politely.

"A ponderous oaf," said the Queen of Thorns. "His father was an oaf as well. My husband, the late Lord Luthor Tyrell. Oh, I loved him well enough, don't mistake me. A kind man, and not unskilled in the bedchamber, but an appalling oaf all the same."

Sansa was both appalled and felt her cheeks flushed when she heard Olenna using such vulgar words in the presence of her children, and instinctively covered their ears. Lyonel and Cassana looked equally confused, but paid no mind as their sights were focused solely on the porridge in front of them as Olenna kept on talking.

"He managed to ride off a cliff whilst hawking. They say he was looking up at the sky and paying no mind to where his horse was taking him. And now my son is doing the same, only this time he's riding a half-lion, half-stag instead of a horse. A lion is not a lap cat, I told him. A stag is not a harmless gentle creature of the forest, I told him. But he only chuckles and gives me too much tut-tutting. All these Kings would do a deal better if they would put down their swords and listen to their mothers."

Sansa realized that her mouth was open again. The other women of Highgarden and the Reach were giggling at the spectacle, only ceasing for a moment when Lyonel playfully flung a spoon of porridge at a nearby bird.

"No, no, Lyonel. We don't play with our food," Sansa scolded.

Olenna noticed this. "Does the boy plan on taking after his father?" she asked abruptly.

"Difficult to say, my lady. He's still learning, but all children make mistakes at some point and learn from them. Sons learn from their mothers, so I've been told. And I plan on teaching mine a great deal."

"Mmm. That sounds reassuring. Now," she leaned in, "I want you to tell me the truth about this royal boy, this Tommen lad."

Sansa froze, feeling a wave of suspicion. "Tommen? What about him? He's Daveth's youngest brother."

"Yes, yes, we all know that part. Ever since that disgusting slaughter instigated by the disgraced Joffrey, we've been hearing some troubling tales. I hope they are not all true."

_'Don't even think of putting Tommen into the same category as that horrible monster!'_  the Wolf Queen wanted to say. Instead, she shook her head. "Prince Tommen is not at all like Joffrey in the slightest," she answered.

"How so? Is he kind? Clever? Has he a good heart, a gentle hand? Will he cherish Margaery and treat her tenderly, protect her honor as he would his own?"

Margaery spoke up. "I'm to be his wife, Your Grace. I only want to know what that means."

Sansa felt her shoulders stiffen; now feeling suspicious out of respect for Daveth's brother, her eyes traded back and forth glances between Olenna and Margaery. Having learned about political players seeking any sort of elevation might often try to take advantage of someone's nature, something she herself had to learn during her tutelage in King's Landing. Something told Sansa that behind the Tyrell's charitable and poised outer temperament lies a cunning if not ruthless ambition, seeking to take advantage of every opportunity like a flower bending with the wind and sun. Yet the Tyrells also have a familial bond that Sansa herself acknowledges, though that didn't stop her from feeling somewhat apprehensive.

"My father always told the truth," Sansa spoke.

"Lord Eddard, yes, he had that reputation."

"Tommen," Sansa said, "is a good-hearted lad. A kind one. Sure he stumbles at times, but he really does try his best. He…" She stopped abruptly, and covered her mouth—knowing she said too much.

"'He what'?" Olenna said impatiently.

"Go on," Margaery urged. Tommen's own Princess Consort-to-be.

Lyonel and Cassana stopped eating and looked up at their mother, both curiously staring at her with their big, blue eyes. Sansa knew that others would likely listen in to the conversation and Varys would know about what transpired either way.

"Joffrey abused him when he was younger, both physically and emotionally," she whispered, quiet enough to avoid any unwanted attention but loud enough for her two guests to hear. "My husband put a stop to that, and protects him. So you can understand why Tommen goes out of his way to impress others. Not for the sake of wanting attention, but out of his desire to learn."

Lady Olenna Tyrell and her granddaughter exchanged a look. "Ah," said the old woman, "so then the rumors were unfounded then."

_'Rumors? What rumors?'_  "Now that we've come home, we can begin proceeding with the wedding as promised."

Even Margaery was caught off guard. "Already?" she asked.

Sansa nodded. "Those we're sworn to protect don't necessarily call my husband 'Oathkeeper' for a reason. Your wedding to Prince Tommen will take place before Princess Myrcella to Prince Trystane of House Martell within a fortnight."

Olenna bit down onto a piece of cheese. "Then the Lord Oaf of Highgarden will most likely beside himself with Margaery marrying into the royal family. And the word of a Tyrell is worth more than all the gold in Casterly Rock. At least it was in my day. Even so, we thank you for your honesty, Your Grace."

Sansa said nothing further, only watching as more servants came by with a plate of lemon cakes. The day appeared to be a long one, with the sun shining bright in the sky. Her son and daughter apparently had their fill and yawned, rubbing their eyes. Sansa rocked the twins in each arm, occasionally trading verses with the Queen of Thorns and Margaery. Even if they did mean well… what was the purpose of all this questioning?

_'Even if it's a small amount of information, it should prove to be useful,'_  Margaery thought.

Sansa glanced at Margaery.  _'You say you want us to be sisters, as friends… But do not risk falling out of our favor again. Don't do to Tommen what Ser Loras did to Renly. Daveth will not be happy about it if he does find out.'_

* * *

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Lord Robb Stark was seen accompanied by his men, with Ser Rodrik Cassel, Theon Greyjoy and Lord Harald Karstark entering the courtyards of Winterfell with Rickon Stark and the wildling Osha in tow behind them. The Young Wolf had recently returned from the Last Hearth with his youngest brother and Osha, but was somewhat disappointed when Lord Greatjon Umber told him that no one had seen or heard from Bran Stark. The Night's Watch was too preoccupied with its own problems and even though the wildling threat appeared to have dissipated, Greatjon's son Smalljon remained adamant that they still posed a threat one day. After all, the Last Hearth is the furthest stronghold in the North that had to occasionally tangle with the Free Folk now and then.

"He wouldn't let us go with him," Rickon complained.

"Go where?" Robb asked.

"Beyond the Wall. I'm supposed to protect Bran; he can't even walk anymore!"

_'By the Gods, no…'_  he felt stunned. The lands Beyond the Wall are considered the most dangerous, most perilous, vast and mostly uncharted with uninhabitable polar wastelands and below zero freezing temperatures; all of whom are considerably too dangerous. A storm was recently coming in hard so not even the Night's Watch could dispatch several rangers and was busy recuperating from fending off King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder's massive army.

Whatever the odds, Robb knew that his family was not complete even if one Stark was successfully returned. As they rode into the courtyard, Robb was his mother Catelyn standing in the middle with his wife Talisa and their son Eddard. His mother was visibly upset and Talisa tried everything she could to calm her mother-in-law down.

"Robb!" Catelyn panicked.

Robb dismounted and approached. "Mother? What's wrong? What's happened?" he asked.

"Arya's gone!"

"Wh… What do you mean 'gone'?!"

Talisa intervened. "Your sister just disappeared in the dead of night. We sent several scouts to find and retrieve her, but they've had no luck."

"How could she just leave like that? Did she at least leave a note explaining why?"

Catelyn shook her head. "No, Robb, no. All her belongings are still here! She didn't… she didn't leave any note! She's gone!"

Little Ned was visibly upset at his grandmother's distress, whining and complaining. Robb felt like he was being unable to keep his family together.

"Why not seek out help?" suggested Theon.

"And who would be in a position to help us?" Harald pressed doubtfully.

Ser Rodrik spoke up. "If Lady Arya's missing… we could appeal to the Crown for help! Houses Stark and Baratheon are bound by blood with King Daveth's marriage to your sister. Queen Sansa should be able to help us with the search."

"Last I remembered, Lady Stark and Daveth didn't exactly part on good terms," Theon pointed out.

Catelyn noticed, seemingly calmed down a bit. "That was a long time ago. But Ser Rodrik's right about this… If anyone can seek out anyone missing, it would be the Master of Whisperers Varys."

"I'll go to King's Landing," Robb offered.

"No," his mother refused, "there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I will go."

"Mother—"

"Robb, don't… Just don't."

Robb didn't say anything as Catelyn gathered whatever belongings she could. Rather than just let her go by herself, Ser Rodrik and a few dozen guardsmen offered to accompany the Stark matriarch on the long journey to King's Landing with the intention of petitioning the Iron Throne for assistance in locating one of their own.

"I'll send a raven to the capital and let them know of our plight," Maester Luwin recommended.

"Do it," Robb commanded.

Theon felt a headache; one problem resolved somehow ended up with another sprouting in its place. Especially with the season beginning to change in the North; the Greyjoy felt snowflakes beginning to fall. Starks were all right eventually in the end, winter is coming. And the North was always the first to feel the seasonal changes. As Robb and Talisa went into the chambers they shared together whilst Catelyn and Ser Rodrik departed Winterfell again, Theon was pulled aside by Maester Luwin.

"There's also something else," the old man said, "something that couldn't be shared in front of Lord Stark."

Theon looked confused. "What's that?"

Luwin unveiled a scroll. "A raven came in from Deepwood Motte. Your sister—"

"What happened?"

What came next was an utter bombshell.

"Your sister, Yara Greyjoy… has escaped."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay guys. Construction of the house had apparently taken away most of my free time during Spring Break so I was unable to post more chapters as quickly as I used to. But even so, Sansa Stark has her first encounter with the Queen of Thorns Olenna Tyrell and Margaery. How did you think she handled herself? And word has arrived that Yara Greyjoy has suddenly escaped captivity from the Glovers. How will the entire North react to the news in addition with the growing suspicions of Ramsay Snow? Thoughts? Let me know.


	97. Everyone Has Their Own Agenda

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Prince Tommen Baratheon, now 15, stood in front of the Seven-Pointed Star inside the Great Sept of Baelor listening to the bells ringing loudly and people cheering and shouting from outside. Today was a big day for him since it was his wedding day to Lady Margaery Tyrell; guests in attendance were primarily from his own family, his sister Myrcella, his uncles Tyrion and Jaime Lannister. The one important person missing is his own brother, Daveth, who remained bedridden due to his illness.

"Brother…" he said quietly under his breath.

***BONG!***

***BOOM-BOOM, DING-DONG!***

He glanced at Lord Mace Tyrell who accompanied his daughter Margaery down the aisle near the steps towards the Seven-Pointed Star. Tommen examined his wife-to-be; Margaery was lovely in sheer ivory silk, Myrish lace and seed pearls, donned a maiden's cloak made of a hundred golden roses sewn to green velvet. Mace brought his daughter to the front of the steps, lowered his head and stepped backwards as the High Septon opened the Faith's holy book.

Remembering the events of his brother's wedding, Tommen instructively removed the maiden's cloak from Margaery's shoulders and draped her in his family's cloak—detailing the sigils of House Baratheon before fastening it. At that moment, she passed from her father's protection to Prince Tommen's. His and Margery's hands were joined together and tied in a knot, symbolizing their union.

The High Septon cleared his throat. "Lords and ladies of the court," he begun, "we stand here in the sight of gods and men to witness the union of man and wife. Let it be known that Margaery of House Tyrell and Tommen of House Baratheon are one heart, one flesh, one soul." He continued as Tommen and Margery's knot came undone. "Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder. In the sight of the Seven, I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity." He took a moment to look at Tommen and Margery. "Look upon each other and say the words."

With that, Tommen and Margery turned to look each other in the eyes.

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Tommen declared.

"With this kiss I pledge my love," Margaery echoed.

Having recited their vows, they share a kiss. It was light, but gentle; Myrcella watches them from the crowd, applauding for her youngest brother with her betrothed Trystane Martell—their wedding was around the corner once Tommen's was completed. It was a happy day for the newlyweds, yet even Tommen and Margaery knew that it wasn't exactly the same without their eldest brother with them. Even so, the newlyweds turn to the crowd, holding hands.

***APPLAUSE!***

As the guests applaud, Prince Tommen and now-Princess Consort Margaery exchange glances and smile at each other. Compared to the magnificence of Daveth's and Sansa's wedding, Tommen's was a modest affair and small.

**––Some time later––**

In their bedchambers, Tommen and Margaery were breathing heavily. Sweat stuck to their bodies as they sought to catch their breaths; across the room, their clothes were scattered around—indicating the Prince and Princess Consort had finished consummating their marriage. The Young Cub, inexperienced as he is, was rather quick to finish. Margaery, on the other hand, wiped her brow as she pulled the covers over her naked both with one hand and wiping off the seed sticking to her thighs with the other before turning onto her right side to gaze at her royal husband. Her  _second_  husband.

Tommen was worn out, but remained aware of feeling his wife's soft, warm breasts pressing against his bare skin; their naked bodies still remained intertwined with each other. Turning his head to his left, he soon met her gaze.

"Did I… did I hurt you?" he panted nervously.

Margaery looked amused about his brief lovemaking skills.  _'Oh my sweet Prince, you're going to have to do a lot more than that to wear me out,'_  she thought. "No. You were lovely," she replied, shaking her head.

"It all happened so fast."

"Yes," she chuckled.

"I was scared maybe I hurt you, it sounded—"

Margaery scooched forward, brushing the trip of her fingers across Tommen's golden hair. "No, no, no. You're very sweet. The sweetest Prince who ever lived."

Once reassured that his bride was indeed all right, Tommen's attitude quickly shifted from being nervous to somewhat confident. "This is what I want to do all day, every day for the rest of my life!" he declared.  _'Wow! So this must've been what Sansa and my brother felt.'_

"Wouldn't that be glorious?"

Tommen began brushing his hands up and down Margaery's back before giving her buttocks a squeeze, earning a quiet 'eep!' in response. Before he could lean in, he noticed his wife pressed a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Shouldn't we rest a little while? Just to catch our breath," she suggested. "There's no rush, is there?"

_'Oops. Perhaps I was a bit too carried away,'_  he withdrew. "Of course not. Are you hungry? Shall I have them bring you some cake? Or perhaps some pomegranate juice?"

Margaery shook her head. "No, I'm fine. I just want you all to myself… Husband."

"Wife."

They both laugh, visibly seeming to enjoy each other's company (one in particular). Tommen, however, soon felt somewhat disheartened.

"It's just…" he begun, pausing occasionally. "I was really hoping my brother would be there at the ceremony with us; to see me get married to the most beautiful woman in the world… all because Daveth arranged it for me. I wanted to thank him for doing so much for me."

_'Even now he still goes on about the Oathkeeper,'_  Margaery realized. "I understand how you feel. But it's not your fault your brother grew seriously ill," she reassured him. "Sometimes there are circumstances that are beyond our ability to control, no matter how hard we try to avert it. You know that, don't you? You mustn't feel guilty."

"I know, but… I just… I hate feeling so helpless."

Margaery looks at him curiously, before Tommen suddenly sits up—hoping to change the subject.

"Do you like to sail?" he asks.

She sits up. "I love to sail," she answers. By the Gods, Margaery Tyrell finds Tommen Baratheon hilariously easy to charm.

"I do, too!"

Margaery smiles at Tommen, looking forward to years and years of getting everything she wants. She takes his hand in hers.

"I think we're going to be very happy, you and I."

Tommen smiles excitedly. "I do, too."

Margaery leans in and kisses Tommen on his shoulder before turning around. The Young Cub watches as his bride gets up, her exposed naked flesh, and wraps a bedsheet around herself as a cover until finally finding a proper elegant nightgown.

"Living in a tower so high it touches the clouds," she muses. "Of course my grandmother couldn't wait to go home. The capital is not for everyone, I suppose. Does your brother not like it here?"

Now Tommen was curious. Why would she ask about Daveth? "What do you mean…?" he asked. Knowing he wasn't going to get an answer, he figured at least a little something wouldn't hurt. "All four of us were born here, though Daveth always told us to never let our guard down—even for a moment; says it's so that people don't take advantage of us or use us as pawns in their little games."

Margaery sat on the edge of the bed to do her hair, stopping slightly as she listened.  _'Clever stag…'_  she thought before pouring some wine. "It's so wonderful to know you have a brother who looks after you. Wolves and lions always hunt together in packs."

"But that was something I couldn't always seem to understand, especially if you have an older brother who apparently casts a very large shadow in which there's almost no getting away from."

"Oh? How so?"

Tommen realized he might've pushed a little too far. "I… what I meant was that… It's just that no matter what I did as a child, no matter how hard I tried… I could never catch up to my brother."

"But wasn't that his duty as King Robert's heir?"

"I believe so. Daveth's the oldest, and I'm the youngest. But when Joffrey abused me—both physically or mentally—killed my pets, sometimes he did worse than that. 'If you tell anyone, I'll arrange an incident and say you did it to yourself.' So I just… go away inside sometimes to ignore the pain."

Margaery looked confused. "'Go away inside'?"

Tommen shook his head as if he still relived every event. "Mother just ignored us despite our pleas, father was… distant. But when Daveth found out what Joffrey was doing to me and Myrcella… I had never seen my brother get so angry like that. I don't know what he did, but all I knew was that he later came back with bloodied knuckles dragging Joffrey by the collar. 'Try that again and you'll get worse than what you've already got,' he simply told him off."

"Sounds like he's been a good brother."

"Yes. He still is, despite everything that's happened to us. There's been a lot of gossip about Daveth, but I think most of it isn't true," he shook his head. "I suppose it takes a lot to send him over the edge. People are quick to judge."

"And yet given his current state and health problems," Margaery seemed to have suggested, "I suppose it comes with the burdens and stresses of wearing the crown."

"I guess. Every trial, every battle… He's pretty much been forced to go through it alone these last four years."

_'Yet the Baratheon men are as stubborn as they are headstrong in their pursuit of getting what they want,'_  Margaery speculated in slight annoyance. "Perhaps it should be best, for the sake of His Grace's health, that he should take at least some time for himself."

Tommen blinked. "What do you mean?" he asked curiously.

"Has your brother ever missed Storm's End? It's the seat of House Baratheon, after all."

"Umm… I think the last time Daveth visited Storm's End was what father called 'a rite of passage into adulthood' in the Kingswood when he was 13. Or was it during his lord's progress throughout the Stormlands with uncle Renly? Either way, Daveth was born here in King's Landing, like me and Myrcella. Why do you ask?"

Margaery soon stood up, with both hands holding two cups of wine. She hands one to Tommen to drink and sets hers down to comb her hair. "My mother used to say that all work and no play tend to cause some health problems of men. With the amount of stress, betrayal and corruption at almost every corner… even Kings have their limits, but sadly chose to ignore it. I respect your brother and am grateful for bringing us together, I fear that he might on an unfortunate journey to the grave if he doesn't take time for himself…  _out_  of the capital."

Tommen gulped, uncertain as how to respond to either the notion or the fearful thoughts which now entered into his mind. Stay and succumb to illness or leave and rejuvenate? The Young Cub had deep affection for his wife, though he also had great respect for his brother. He'd have to speak with Daveth when he was better… but little did he know it would ultimately set the stage for another clash at court.

* * *

**In Maegor's Holdfast…**

* * *

Resting on his bed, King Daveth Baratheon's breathing was shallow and haggard. Eyes closed, shivering slightly, the Young Stag was engaged in a battle with his ailments. Since returning to King's Landing from Dorne, he was already sweating pretty profusely, his cheeks were flushed and his face was very pale… By the Gods, he hadn't felt so sick or miserable in a  _very_  long time! Bouts of hard coughing and occasional moans of discomfort, Grand Maester Pycelle and a few Septas specializing in medical care tended to Daveth's needs.

"*cough, cough!*"

Daveth's coughing soon caused him to spit out blood from his mouth; the septas quickly wiped his mouth with a cloth.

"Oh dear," one of them said concerned.

Another septa—possibly high-ranking in seniority due to her robes were of a cloth-of-silver and crystal coronet design—moved one aside. Now while she was in her early- to mid-50s, her physical appearance often caused her to be mistaken as a young woman in her late-20s or early-30s. She brushed her hand against the Young Stag's forehead. Leaning forward, she pressed her brow against his to check his temperature.

"His fever is high," she said calm and composed. "We'll need to change the sheets and bring in another bowl of cold water. Get some more dreamwine with salves if possible, and be sure to acquire some leeches from the Grand Maester to drain the King's blood of any infectious bacteria so we can ease the pain."

"Oh, uh… w-well that much has already been pre-determined," Pycelle stated.

"Has this happened before?"

"Once back wh-when he was just a boy, b-but we've since assumed that i-it would never come back."

"If that's the case, then that was rather careless on your part to simply assume so."

Despite feeling so sick and physically weak, Daveth still had enough energy to communicate. "Well…? How bad is it?" he asked hoarsely.

She looked at him. "Your sickness has spread rapidly throughout your body, but it was more quickly than we initially speculated. Had it been anyone else, they would have not been able to survive such an illness."

"Well… you know me—*cough, cough!*—I… always hated sitting around doing nothing, Septa Rosyn…"

Rosyn smiled. "Please, Your Grace. Call me 'Rosyn'," she said in a motherly tone. "I've known you since you were a wee babe, after all."

Daveth coughed again.

"W-we'll go get the medicine from my lab," Pycelle suggested and soon left the room, accompanied by a few septas. Septa Rosyn, however, opted to remain to stabilize the Young Stag.

"Where— *cough, cough!* …where's my wife?" asked Daveth, his voice straining.

Almost on que, Queen Sansa Stark entered the room unexpectedly. "I am here, my husband," she announced.

Daveth weakly turned his head; a wave of relief washed over him as Sansa sat at his bedside and placed her hand on his.

"How is he?" Sansa asked Rosyn.

The senior Septa shook her head. "We have been working around the clock, Your Grace. I will not lie to you: the King has a terrible fever, coughs up blood… and from the looks of it, I fear that he appears to be in terrible pain."

Concerned, the Wolf Queen looks at her sick husband. "Does it hurt?"

Daveth gave a neutral response. "The pain comes and goes, but… *cough, cough!* but each bout is… worse than the last."

Sansa frowned. Taking a moment to twist a wet rag, she placed the cold cloth on her husband's forehead and neck—dabbing away the sweat sliding down his body. Daveth shuddered as he felt the cold cloth touching his skin.

"Prince Tommen and Lady Margaery just got married today," Sansa began a conversation.

"Ah, that's right… Today was the day," the Young Stag groaned.

"Everyone's been asking about you."

"Hopefully not just to— *cough!* gossip about this."

Sansa shook her head. "We did what we could to keep it quiet, but that didn't stop certain dignitaries from requesting an inquiry. It's been like this since we came back from Dorne."

"Uhhh… of course it'd come to this. What of 'Cella's day?"

"The council's made the necessary arrangements for another royal wedding within the fortnight. The Master of Coin Lord Mace Tyrell has donated a rather generous sum of Gold Dragons to the royal treasury in advance of such a wedding."

_'Obviously, but only because that oaf is expecting to get something in return,'_  the Young Stag theorized. "*cough, cough!* And Trystane Martell?" he asked.

"He's still working to get his bearings, love. Lord Tyrion and Prince Oberyn are doing all they can to show him how to be an effective Master of Laws."

"Mmm. Good."

Septa Rosyn watched the two, content on watching the King and Queen spending quality time with one another.

"And the twins?" Daveth asked.

"They were tucked in their cribs 30 minutes ago. Shae and Brienne are watching over them," Sansa answered. "Lyonel took a moment, but Cassana… she wouldn't stop crying. She misses you terribly."

_'Ah, firefly…'_  Daveth thought, ignoring the occasional return of pain in his chest and the sudden urge to vomit.

"Daveth?"

The Young Stag looked at his wife and shook his head, still noticing that Sansa's hand was placed atop of his. "It's all right, Sansa. Just… got lost in thoughts for a moment."

"Tell me."

Daveth looked out the window, knowing that it's nighttime with only a few stars illuminating the city of King's Landing below. The King and Queen, meanwhile, also noticed a change in the wind's temperature—even as far south, they knew that the seasons had already started to change.

"All this cold breezes, the weather already beginning to turn… *cough, cough!* it makes me think when I first met you at Winterfell."

Sansa smile reminiscently. "I remember. You were so handsome."

"Am I still?"

She found that remark amusing. "Yes, dearest, you still are – no matter how many scars you get. When father told me I was to marry you… it was love at first sight. Did you feel the same way?"

Daveth repressed a discomforted groan, yet chose to reply nonetheless. "Actually… *cough, cough!* all I could think of was, 'Who is this northern girl father was so dead set on marrying me off to?'"

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Ah, Daveth. You're so charming when you try to be funny," she pouted.

"Was never one of my strong suits," he said in defense. "Still… not like I didn't understand the attraction. But… *cough!* the more time I spent with you, the… more I saw the real you lying beneath th— *cough, cough!* the surface." Daveth gently gave Sansa's hand a squeeze. "And you know what?"

"What?"

"I'm… glad, to have you as my wife. And the mother… *cough!* of my children."

Sansa smiled warmly. "I love you, Daveth. You know that, right?"

Daveth gave a week nod. "I love you t—"

After a short intimate moment, the Young Stag quickly clamped his eyes tight and groaned in pain with a loud 'Nnngah!', unintentionally applying a bit of pressure to Sansa's hand. The Wolf Queen was taken by surprise, yet wormed her fingers out of Daveth's palm as Septa Rosyn moved to the side to concoct a vial of dreamwine with a single drop of Essence of Nightshade.

"Dearest?" Sansa's voice slightly elevated.

As soon as Daveth's body ceased twitching, he gritted his teeth and groaned. "Can I… can I have some water? Please?" he asked. His throat sounded dry and hoarse.

Sansa stood and poured a cup of ice, cold water into a small cup and placed her right hand underneath Daveth's head to lift him up and brought the cup to his lips. Raising her left hand slightly, Sansa carefully observed Daveth opening his mouth to gulp down. He coughed a bit as a small stream slide down his cheek. Sansa grabbed a nearby cloth and wiped her husband's cheek. Daveth shivered slightly after feeling the cool liquid sliding down his throat.

"Thank you…" he moaned.

Septa Rosyn examined Daveth closely, handing the vial. "Take this, Your Grace. It'll help you sleep."

Daveth steadily drank the concoction, ignoring the bitter taste. "Gah! Seven hells, I hate this…"

"I know you do," Rosyn said sympathetically, "but it's for your health."

Feeling lightheaded and drowsy, Daveth slowly felt his eyelids growing heavy and before long he found himself slowly drifting off to sleep. Sansa remained at Daveth's bedside, insistent on spending the night with Septa Rosyn so as to help take care of her sick husband. Rosyn didn't object, but recommended following her instructions thoroughly in the morning. Given what they've already seen, the King's condition was bound to get worse as time progressed.

Unbeknownst to them, a certain red priestess observed from a distance. Twiddling her glowing red amulet around her neck, Vaeraleah's eyes remained locked on a now-sleeping Daveth Baratheon and Sansa Stark and Septa Rosyn arranging the necessary procurements they're going to need in the morning.

"Ziry won't sagon bōsa sir (It won't be long now)," she said out of earshot. "Aderī, Daveth Barāthēon, ao'll aderī gūrēñagon bona se Āeksiot Ōño ēza kȳvana isse tistālion syt ao (Soon, Daveth Baratheon, you'll soon learn that the Lord of Light has special plans in store for you.)" Glancing down, she hummed into her amulet. "Rhaenagon se bēvilagon kȳvana. Nyke'll rhaenagon kesīr isse dārys tegorīr, ao rȳ sombāzmion zōbrie. Se ao rȳ Mīrīn. (Begin making the necessary arrangements. I'll start here in King's Landing, you at Castle Black... and you at Meereen)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, so here's the newest chapter including the early interaction between Tommen and Margaery as well as Daveth's ongoing medical treatment. Obviously Margaery has something in store, possibly trying to encourage Tommen to convince Daveth (once he's well enough) to "leave for personal time off". That might mean that she plots on separating the two brothers from one another. And we get to see how the Young Stag, the Black Lion, the Oathkeeper King Daveth Baratheon coping with his illness now that he's literally bed-ridden. It's nice to see how Sansa's being a devoted wife tending to her sick husband and a Septa who knows him for quite a long time… but Vaeraleah appears to be like a predator stalking her prey, intent on having Daveth getting ready for what possible future has in store. Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> Remember, one more month until Season 8 is released so be sure to leave either a hashtag #ForTheThrone or #WinterIsComing in acknowledgment! Stay tuned for more updates!


	98. Massacre of Hardhome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An evacuation quickly disintegrates into a massacre.

**At Hardhome…**

* * *

Cold winds howl, deafening the sound of men grunting rowing their oars as they each felt the rowboats continuing to rock back and forth along with the shake of the waves. With the  _Storm Crow_  and dozens of ships off in the distance, a group of men representing both the Night's Watch and the Free Folk, leading from the front stood Lord Commander Jon Snow, King-Beyond-the-Wall Mance Rayder and chieftain Tormund Giantsbane.

Although there were still some lingering tensions on both sides, Jon, Mance and Tormund knew of the real threat that awaited them all: the threat of the White Walkers and their undead army. If the Free Folk were to ever survive, if the Night's Watch was to ever survive, if all of Westeros were to ever survive… Jon and Mance needed to negotiate an alliance.

"Turn us about!" one of the Night's Watch rangers shouted.

Jon gazed on the horizon, looking at the approaching settlement as they drew nearer. "This is…"

"Hardhome," Mance confirmed. "A fishing village along Storrold's Pont, the closest thing to a true town the Free Folk ever built… and our last refuge. When you crows routed us, most of my people fled here. What's left of us anyway. If we don't get south of the Wall, well… you know what fate will be in store."

The Lord Commander of the Night's Watch said nothing as the ships full of wildlings and Night's Watchmen slowly reach the docks at Hardhome. Disembarking, they see a large gathering of wildlings—a total estimation between around 50,000 to 100,000—already assembling near the shore, swords attached to their hips.

"Hardhome is an unholy place, it's said. Cursed," Grenn whispered.

"Cut the chatter back there!" hushed Cotter Pyke.

Tormund approached Jon. "Do you trust us, Jon Snow?" he asked.

"Does that make me a fool?" the Lord Commander replied back.

Mance stepped in front of him. "We are fools together. Might as well decide on  _how_  we go out."

Once they stepped off the rowboats, some of the wildlings immediately recognized who was walking towards them. They walk to meet the wildling men and women of Hardhome, led by one of Mance's lieutenants, Lord of Bones.

"Look, mama! Look!" one of the children exclaimed.

"The King-Beyond-the-Wall…"

"Mance Rayder!"

"We're saved!"

Mance noticed the attention he was getting, but paid no mind. "Been a long time, Lord of Bones. Thought you were among those who fell at the Wall."

The Lord of Bones remained indifferent. "It'll take much more than that to kill me," he retorted before noticing Jon. "When we heard the little crows took you and our brothers and sisters prisoner, most of us made our way here. What we were not expecting, however, I see that same crow who turned his back on us in your company. What happened?"

"War," answered Tormund.

"You call that a war? The greatest army in the North has ever seen was cut to pieces by some southern lord!"

"Perhaps we should find some place more quiet to talk. Gather the elders."

" _You_ don't give the orders here—"

Mance cut him off. "No, but I do. Get the elders. There's much to discuss, and not enough time to waste."

Figuring out that Mance Rayder was not joking around nor was he in any mood for nonsensical bickering, the Lord of Bones begrudgingly turned his back and ventured deep into Hardhome to gather the local wildling elders. Believing that the initial problem was settled, Mance turned to Jon and Tormund.

"We should be getting an audience now. Come. The more time we waste here, the faster they'll be coming."

Mance followed the Lord of Bones' trail, accompanied by Jon Snow and Tormund. Each gathering to assemble into the village's largest shelter, the wildling elders of different clans were quick to see their King-Beyond-the-Wall once more—despite some growing discontent among the Free Folk clans at the presence of the Night's Watch. A small fire lit the room in the middle, warming everyone and everything inside with only a small hole in the roof to filer the smoke out. Only high-ranking wildlings were permitted inside such as Karsi, a spearwife; Loboda, a Thenn elder; and various others. Most of them were complaining rather loudly.

"Why are there crows here?" one of them snapped.

"They slaughtered our people!"

"Dead crows!"

Feeling a headache growing, Mance sharply stood. "ENOUGH!" he bellowed. All was quiet before he spoke again. "Have you all forgotten my warnings? 90 clans, half of whom want to massacre the other half for one insult or another, those among you who speak seven different languages…"

Karsi chimed in. "The crows built that Wall to keep us out!" she exclaimed. "I lost my father, uncle and two brothers fighting the damn crows."

"Since when do the crows give two shits if we live?" demanded Loboda.

Mance turned to Jon, motioning him forward. Snow stepped forward—standing side-by-side with the King-Beyond-the-Wall. Feeling the tense atmosphere, Jon cleared his throat.

"My name is Jon Snow. I'm Lord Commander of the Night's Watch," he begun. "We're not friends. We've never been friends. We won't become friends today. This isn't about friendship. This is about survival. This is about putting a 700 foot wall between you and what's out there."

"Loboda," Mance looked at him, "the Thenns hate the Hornfoots, but you understand the importance of survival against the real enemy out there." He turned to another wildling leader. "Narwynd, the Hornfoots hate the Ice-river clans. Hell, everyone hates the cave people. Cannibals, moon-worshipers and giants. I warned you all what would happen if we don't get south. In normal times, the Free Folk and crows would never be friends. But times have changed, as did our circumstances. We all saw what was out there. Near the Frozen Shore, Milkwater, Giant's Stairs, Skirling Pass, at the Fist of the First Men… If we don't put this animosity between the Free Folk and the crows, then we're just meat in  _their_  army."

"Only together can we defeat them," implored Jon.

"Beat the White Walkers? Pfff! Good luck with that," Karsi scoffed. "Run from them, maybe."

"Snow," the King-Beyond-the-Wall beckoned, "show them what you showed me."

Hoisting a large bag over his shoulder, handed to him from Grenn and Eddison, Jon threw the bundle to the ground near the wildlings. Hesitantly, Karsi stepped forward and looked inside at the contents.

"It's a gift for those who join us in an alliance against the White Walkers. Dragonglass. A man of the Night's Watch used one of these daggers to kill a White Walker."

"'Alliance'?" Loboda retorted. "Is that what you're calling this now, crow?"

"An alliance is what was recommended between myself and Mance Rayder to keep you safe from everything you've all seen," Jon said. "Come with us. There are good lands south of the Wall. As Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, I will allow you through the tunnel and allow your people to farm those lands. My brother, Robb Stark, is Warden of the North. Once I explain to him the severity of the situation, he'll understand. My sister, Sansa Stark, is Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Once explain the same to her, she'll come around."

There was some hesitation; Mance knew this and tried to up the ante. "I never wanted a war with the Night's Watch. A new life for all the Free Folk, for all of you, awaits us south of the Wall. To be honest, we'll need each other when the real war begins so we're not asking you to forget your dead."

"I lost 50 brothers the night that Mance attacked the Wall," Jon joined in, his eyes ablaze with passion and determination. "But I'm asking you to think about your children now. They'll never have children of their own if we don't band together. For the first time in 8,000 years, the Long Night has returned and the dead come with it. No clan can stop them alone. The Free Folk can't stop them alone. The Night's Watch can't stop them alone. And all the southern lords can't stop them alone. Only together, all of us, and even then it might not be enough, but at least then we'll give the fuckers a fight!"

Mance looked impressed with Jon's speech, how a bastard crow was willing to put old, historical grudges aside for what is right. This earned him some small nods of approval throughout the room.

"You vouch for this man, Tormund?" Karsi asked.

He grunted. "He's prettier than both my daughters, but he knows how to fight. He's young, but he knows how to lead. He didn't have to come to Hardhome. He came because he needs us. And we need him."

"And you?" she turned to Mance.

The King-Beyond-the-Wall remained adamant in his decision. "Ned Stark's bastard might be like him, but once we exposed him to the same horror we had to, well… Imagine how fast a boy his age can quickly change his mind. If this alliance guarantees the survival and integrity of the Free Folk, then I suggest we take it."

One of the giants, Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, grunted and snorted—still fiddling with a shard of dragonglass between the tip of his fingers before slowly rising to his full height, his head banging against the roof causing cracking wood to be heard throughout the room.

"Caballein misain ye (I am a free man)," Wun grunted in the Old Tongue. "Ye moridin ye caballein (I die a free man)."

Eddison leaned towards Green. "The fuck did he say?" he whispered.

Grenn shrugged his shoulders. He didn't understand the Old Tongue dialect the giant was using to communicate.

"My ancestors would spit on me if I broke bread with a crow," said Loboda disapprovingly.

"So would mine, but fuck 'em, they're dead," Karsi replied. "I'll never trust a man in black, but… I trust Tormund. And I trust our King-Beyond-the-Wall. If you say this is the way, then the Frozen Shore tribes are with you."

"This is the way," both Tormund and Mance nodded.

A wildling elder stood. "I'm with Mance Rayder. If we stay here, we're all dead. At least with King Crow and our King-Beyond-the-Wall, then there's at least a fighting chance for the Ice-river clans to survive."

"Tormund," Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun grunted as a signal of agreement. "Rayder."

"The Hornfoot clan stands with Mance Rayder," acknowledged chieftain Varnamyr.

"As do the Cave people," stated chieftain Gogir.

Knowing that the only reason that more wildlings were joining Mance Rayder and Jon Snow was because the mere presence of their returning King-Beyond-the-Wall, who remained adamant on them needing this alliance solely for the benefit of the Free Folk and their collective clans. Jon, Grenn and Eddison felt confident in themselves that this gambit was paying off in their favor in the long run, as was Mance Rayder too.

Unfortunately, only one group of Free Folk remained adamant in their decision. Loboda, chieftain of the Thenns, threw his share of dragonglass onto the ground. Everyone around them looked at him in astonishment.

"Keep that new life you want to give us and keep your glass, King Crow," Loboda spat, brandishing his axe. "I don't know how you twisted the King-Beyond-the-Wall's mind, but the Thenns won't fall for your tricks. As soon as you get on his ships, they're going to slit your throats and dump your bodies to the Shivering Sea." He pointed to Jon menacingly. " _That's_  our enemy.  _That_  has always been our enemy!"

Despite the backlash and condemnations, Loboda left the cabin with some of his warriors. Mance shook his head in annoyance. Karsi, however, glanced at Tormund and spat in Loboda's direction.

"I fucking hate Thenns."

Tormund nodded.

_'Let's just hope this will be enough,'_  Jon pondered.

**•••**

Once outside, Eddison and Green along with several Night's Watch rangers were seen assisting Tormund and Karsi loading volunteering wildlings onto the rowboats to take them to safety. Dozens were seen departing towards Stannis Baratheon's ships off in the distance before coming back to carry some more. Women, children and elders were brought onboard first, followed by the Free Folk warriors and chieftains.

"Move it," one of the men called out.

"Be careful," replied a woman.

"Move 'em along, now."

"Cast-off time."

"That's it, come on."

Jon and Mance observed more Free Folk approaching the small docks. The center of Hardhome was being cramped due to the large population.

"How many are with us?" Jon asked Mance. "5,000? 8,000?"

"I estimate somewhere between 15,000 to 20,000. Men, women and children," the King-Beyond-the-Wall replied. "Don't worry, Jon Snow. The Free Folk may be a stubborn bunch, but we're loyal to no one but our own. Trust me. It took me 20 years to unite every single one of the clans together."

"We're still leaving too many behind."

"They know there's nothing left in the surrounding area to hunt, and we're running out of food. Pride is not a trait of the Free Folk, living to fight another day is. Get your people ready. I'll do the same with mine."

Karsi lifts up one of her daughters onto the rowboats. "Your sister Johnna is gonna look after you. You hear me, Willa? She's in charge, so listen to her."

The little girl shook her head furiously. "I wanna go with you!" she wailed, tears poured down her cheeks. Willa looked at her mother with big brown pleading eyes.

"I need to get the old folks on the boat," she explained, kissing her daughter on the forehead. "I'm right behind you, I promise. Go on."

The boat began to sail away as more voices began overlapping each other with more wildlings were being loaded onto the boats.

"Another one."

"Keep moving. We'll meet you out there."

"Won't be able to take that on the boat. It's too big."

"That's the last one!"

"Three more! Move on!"

Nearby, the giant Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun picks up a piece of dragonglass and strokes it intently. Eddison and Grenn began picking up the pieces of glass and looks at the giant with their piece of glass. Wun Wun turns to them and stares annoyed.

"Lokh kif rukh? (The fuck you looking at?)" the giant bellows in Old Tongue.

Eddison and Grenn quickly darted away from Wun Wun when the dogs started barking outside. Jon Snow and Mance Rayder loaded more children onto a boat, their concentration breaking as soon as they both heard dogs barking. Then… they felt it. The cold wind pummeling Hardhome suddenly started whipping from a neighboring cliff, causing the dogs to immediately start whimpering. Every Free Folk and Night's Watch slowly turned towards the source of the noise.

***FWOOSH!***

***WHIFF!***

***WHOOSH!***

"Oh no…" Mance said quietly, his voice filling with dread and fear.

"What is it?" Jon asked concerned.

"They're here…"

Gripping his axe in his hands, Loboda turned to his men. "Shut the gate."

The Thenns hurry forward towards the gate near the entrance to Hardhome and begin to quickly start boarding it up. More howling winds are heard in the distance as thick, heavy fog began to quickly enclose the area with a deafening sound at an alarming rate. The Free Folk still on the other side of the gate, filled with fear, begin charging the gate.

"SHUT THE GATE!" Loboda shouted again.

Men rush to put a board in place to hold the gate shut.

"Wait! Open the gate!" the Free Folk locked on the other side shouted, pounding their hands desperately on the wood. "Let us in! Help us! Please open it!"

"What are you doing?!" Jon shouted. "There are still people outside!"

"If we let them in, we'll all DIE!" Loboda shouted.

Both the Night's Watch and Free Folk could do nothing but look on helplessly, watching and listening to the thousands of stranded wildlings continue to scream and plead for help, begging their brethren on the other side to open the gates and let them in before the fog rolled in and consumed them all. Then silence fell upon Hardhome. It was quiet… too quiet.

Jon, Mance and Tormund each gripped the hilt of their weapons. They felt disheartened at the sound of the Free Folk's cries and pleas for help, only to be left to die. The Thenns stationed at the front of the gate slowly back away. Loboda slowly approaches to the gate with his axe and peers through a small hole in the wall. There is a faint scream in the distance, but almost instantly was met with a frightening sight.

" ***RAAAAUUUGHHH!*** "

An undead wight charged at the hole in the wall, nearly grabbing Loboda—who instantly jerked backwards.

" ***SNARL!*** "

"Ready your arrows!" Tormund called to the archers.

One by one, the wights claw at the gate. Arrows are nocked and fired. When a wight sticks its hand through the gate, Loboda rushes over and chops it off.

"Everyone, get to the boats!" shouted Mance Rayder.

Immediately, there is a mad rush towards the boats with many wildlings jumping in the water to catch one.

"Wait! Wait!" Tormund exclaimed.

"Get in line! Get in line!" shouted Jon Snow.

More and more wights kept thumping against the gates, snarling and growling like rabid beasts—determined to get into Hardhome to reach their prey. Their menacing, lifeless glowing blue eyes peaked through the holes. One wight tries to climb the gate, crawling to the top of the cabin and jumps through the hole in the roof; Free Folk and Night's Watch rangers prepare their weapons as Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun growls menacingly.

One wight tries to climb under the gate. A barrage of arrows flies at the wights trying to get through the wall. Most of them land. Another wight crawls even further under the gate. Combining their body weight against the wooden frame, each of the wights start collectively making holes in the gate; a sword sticks through the gate coming close to Loboda on the gate. Loboda dodges the sword, looks down to see the wight crawling under the gate, and stomps its head in. Back at the docks, the people continue to rush onto the boats with Jon, Tormund, Mance and Karsi leading them.

"Duncan, hold the line!" Jon shouted. "Hold the line!"

"Lord Commander!" one of the rangers exclaimed.

"Get them to the ship and come back for me!"

"But you'll never make—"

"Now!" He notices Karsi approaching him. "You should be on one of those boats!"

"So should you!" she retorted. "My little girls have gone on. They're gonna let them pass the Wall even if you're not there?"

"You have my word. I've given the orders."

"Don't think you're gonna be there to enforce those orders!"

Mance grabbed her arm. "We'll time to argue once we get there! Now get going!"

***RUMBLE!***

"If the dead make it past the gate, everyone dies!" Tormund pointed out.

"Then we make our stand here. Give the others time to escape!"

Jon unsheathed Longclaw. "Night's Watch with me! Move! Move! Move!" he ordered.

Jon, Tormund, Karsi and the Night's Watch broghers charge from the shore to the gate; the wights managed to knock a hole into the gate big enough to crawl out of. One breaks through, tears someone apart, and then is taken down. A group of wights storm through the same hole. Jon arrives at the gate and pins a wight to the gate with Longclaw as Tormund, Mance and Karsi kill the wights that have already gotten through. The archers take out the wight Jon pinned to the gate, and then the men cover the hole the wights had been escaping from with a sled. Nearby, a group of wights tear into a Night's Watch ranger.

Jon looks up through the mist and sees four White Walkers mounted on undead horses on the top of the cliff, staring down at him – overseeing the battle. He stares back at them intently before noticing several wights climbing atop the hut. Realizing the need for the only known lethal substance against the White Walkers, Jon panics.

"The dragonglass!" he exclaims.

Mance turns to Jon. "You're with me, Jon Snow! You too, Thenn! Now!"

Nodding, all three charge towards the building. Jon cuts a wight in half then kills another. Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun breaks through a wall in the cabin as the cabin starts to go down in flames. He shakes the wights off of his back, snapping some in half and stomping others into pieces. Jon, Mance and Loboda storm the cabin. The building is on fire.

"Get the glass," Loboda shouted.

Unveiling to pick-axes from his sheath, Mance Rayder easily swings his weapons left and right, cutting down multiple wights before turning around to see a fire wall in front of him dissipating in the center, revealing a White Walker lieutenant confronting the trio.

"So this is how it's going to be, eh?" Mance scoffed, ready for battle. "Well, let's make this a good one."

Mance and Loboda charge the White Walker as Jon scrambles towards the dragonglass. Loboda misses with his axe twice, getting it caught in the wall. Mance swings both arms and drives his pick-axes into the White Walker's backside, but the weapons shatter into pieces. The Walker glares at the King-Beyond-the-Wall and backhands him aside, sending him off a platform and onto the hard ground.

"Ooof!" he grunted and groaned upon impact.

Loboda frees his weapon as the White Walker swings its icy spear. The Thenn elder parries in time, but the weapon shatters upon impact. The White Walker lieutenant then plunges its spear through Loboda's stomach, killing him.

Jon reaches the dragonglass but is thrown across the room by the White Walker before he can pick it up, causing Longclaw to fly out of the cabin. Jon ducks from the Walker's swings with his spear, and runs out to grab another sword. The Walker swings and shatters the sword. He knocks Jon down again with the hilt of its icy spear. Jon retreats from the burning town hall and struggles before getting up again, running to pick up Longclaw.

"Over here!" Mance shouted. Picking up an ordinary sword, the King-Beyond-the-Wall swings hard but his too shatters upon impact and is again backhanded by the White Walker before it returned its attention to Jon Snow. Jon stumbles and drops his sword as the White Walker staggers towards him.

***SHIING!***

***CLASH!***

***RING!***

Just in the nick of time, Jon manages to pick up Longclaw to match the White Walker, and to both their surprises, Longclaw stops the White Walker lieutenant's icy spear and doesn't shatter on contact. Seizing the opportunity, Jon moves to counterattack. The White Walker deflects one blow from Jon, but then he swings and shatters the White Walker into pieces after being touched by Longclaw. Jon falls to the ground, exhausted after the struggle.

Little did he know, standing atop the cliff with its lieutenants, stood the White Walkers' ultimate master: the Night King – staring at the slaughter with its cold, glowing blue eyes and a crown of horns jutting from its head. Having existed since the age of the First Men, it was the Army of the Dead's supreme leader. The Night King watched Jon with interest, having slain one of its White Walker lieutenants in single-combat.

Now back on his feet again, Mance Rayder aided Jon Snow back to his feet and both towards Eddison and Grenn, who were seen waiving them over. Karsi looks up, and sees a group of blue-eyed wight children staring at her. They do nothing for a moment, then charge at her, chewing and clawing her to death.

"There's too many of them!" Mance pointed out.

"I know!" Eddison exclaimed. "We'll die if we stay here! We have to go! Now!"

Noticing that was their cue, Tormund and Wun Wun roar as the gate comes crashing down. The giant swings a fiery log. The rest of the surviving Free Folk sprint towards the boat with Wun clearing a path for them with the log; Jon, Tormund, Mance, Grenn and Eddison jump off the dock onto the boat.

"Go! Go! Go!"

"Wun Wun," Mance called out, "to the sea!"

The giant stays back, continuing to take out loads of wights by swinging his flaming log. He begins to walk towards the boat, ripping the wights hanging onto him off of his back and throwing them into the water to die.

"Let's go! Now!"

"Quickly, row! Row!"

Glancing back to the shore, Jon and Mance see the wights along with a White Walker, killing the last surviving wildlings that unfortunately couldn't make it to the boats in time or were unwilling to board Stannis's ships.

"17,000 Free Folk…" Mance mourned. "That's all that's left of us now…"

Tormund placed a reassuring, comforting hand on his best friend's shoulder—trying his best to lift Mance's disenchanted spirit at the outright slaughter of the Free Folk who followed his leadership. Once 100,000 strong was now reduced to 17,000. Not enough to survive the winter unless they're permitted through the walls of Castle Black to reach the safety of the south.

"Jon! Look!" Grenn pointed.

Slowly, a figure walks to the end of the dock reveal the Night King. He stares at Jon and Jon stares back. The Night King turns his head to the carnage at the edge of the shore and then looks back to Jon before slowly starting to raise his arms up. The dead wildlings twitch, then one by one they open their eyes to reveal a glowing bluish hue. Karsi comes back to life, blue-eyed. They all start standing up, joining the Army of the Dead, and staring at Jon.

Jon can do nothing but stare back at the Night King back as the boat drifts away.

"We have to warn the others," Jon said simply. "We've got to warn them all before it's too late."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, guys! But here you: the massacre of Hardhome and the first ever appearance of the ultimate villain in all Game of Thrones: The Night King. Battle remained mostly the same, but Mance Rayder actually participated in the conflict and the evacuation had a much greater number than the initial 5,000. This time, 17,000 wildlings were rescued. What do you guys think? Think Mance will feel an overwhelming desire for revenge against the Night King and the White Walkers when the inevitable conflict comes to a head? Thoughts? Let me know.


	99. A Turn For The Worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*: The following content may not be appropriate for certain persons under the age of 18 (depending on the legal age requirements in countries outside the United States) and may contain NSFW material such strong language, nudity, profanity and/or sexual themes that some viewers may find offensive. If you are under 18, do not view such content. Viewer discretion is advised.
> 
> If you are 18 and up, enjoy!

 

**At the Dreadfort…**

* * *

Lord Roose Bolton did not have a strong likeness to his bastard son, Ramsay Snow. At the family dinner within the Dreadfort, he sat at a table with Ramsay and his new wife Walda—commonly referred to as 'Fat Walda'. Though occasionally mild-mannered, never raised his voice and been in many battles, Roose was  _not_ pleased with Ramsay's blatant disregard of his authority despite repeatedly being warned. Barely even gripping his chalice, Roose stared at Ramsay.

"You said you wanted something to discuss with me?" he said chilly.

Ramsay couldn't help but grin, remaining indignant as he put up a polite façade. "Allow me, mother," he said – pouring his stepmother some wine.

"Thank you, Ramsay," Walda smiled.

There was a long silence which lasted a while before Ramsay stood from the table; now, ordinarily Roose would be considered surprised since his bastard son never referred to Walda as mother… unless there was something to be gained from it—if only for  _himself_  claiming it was for House Bolton.

"You'll be pleased to learn, father," Ramsay begun confidently, "that the rumors have been repressed and none remain the wiser. It wasn't easy and it took quite a deal of bargaining, the other northern houses have apparently backed off."

Dontar, one of House Bolton guardsmen, remained off to the side of the room – paying no heed to the conversation, for even he knew the consequences of intentional eavesdropping on a powerful lord of a powerful, yet feared house.

Roose, however, was not entirely convinced. "And what were the exact details?"

"Initial reports indicated that… Locke had inside help; several men were apprehended and questioned night and day. When each of them… confessed their treason, I flayed them living. Made their families watch."

"And?"

"Officially, House Bolton still denies any sort of wrongdoing and publicly condemned Locke and his men for the assassination attempt on the King's life."

Roose believed there was something more. "What else?" he pressed.

Ramsay snapped his fingers, motioning for Dontar to open the dining hall's doors to reveal a young girl, dressed in grey wool broidered with white satin; over it she wore an ermine cloak clasped with a silver wolf's head.

"I believe we've found a way to strengthen our relations to the other houses and the entire North," he said proudly. "Father, I'm sure you recall Lady Arya Stark?"

Roose narrowed his eyes to thoroughly examine the girl up and down; she was slim, and taller than he remembered, but that was to be expected.  _'Girls grow fast at that age,'_  he thought. Dark brown hair fell halfway down her back. Her eyes on the other hand…  _'That is not Lord Eddard's daughter,'_  he realized.  _'That's Sansa's little friend, the steward's girl. Jeyne, that was her name. Jeyne Poole.'_

By comparison, Arya Stark had her father's eyes of House Stark and was much less attractive. A girl her age might let her hair grow long, add inches to her height, see her chest fill out, but she could not change the color of her eyes.

Noticing Ramsay glaring at her, as if motioning her that it was her cue, Jeyne Poole steadily (yet shakily) entered the room – trying to hide her fear.

"Lord Bolton," Jeyne dipped down before him. "I… I pray that I will be of good service to your house, a-and your son Lord Ramsay."

Roose noticed that was wrong as well.  _'That will not do at all. The real Arya Stark would have spat at my face,'_  he shook his head disappointedly.

"That you will," promised Ramsay, "and soon. Stark and Bolton will be bound together by blood, if not by blood. It'll be the strongest alliance the North has ever seen. We are all a family, we northerners. Remember? Our blood ties go back thousands of years." He turned to Jeyne, glaring at her to keep quiet and continue the façade.  _'You are the real Arya, remember? Arya of House Stark, Lord Eddard's daughter, sister to the Lord of Winterfell and Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms. Now act like it or else…!'_

Jeyne flinched and averted her eyes as Ramsay takes a large sip of wine. Walda noticed this girl's growing discomfort – her watery eyes that somehow begged her 'please help me'; reaching across the table, Lady Bolton placed her fat hands onto Jeyne's shaking palms.

"It must be difficult for you being in a strange place," Walda tried to make conversation.

Jeyne looked at her, but before she could say anything Roose interjected his way into the conversation.

"Before we can get to that," he stated, "Walda and I have some good news as well, since we're all together."

Walda squeezed Roose's hands excitedly. "We're going to have a baby," she announced.

"Congratulations, Lord Bolton," one of the guards praised.

"From the way she's carrying, Maester Wolkan says it looks like a boy."

What started out as a joyous day (at least for some) quickly deteriorated with Ramsay Snow by the end of the day. He took a big gulp of his wine and angrily set his cup down, nearly slamming down onto the table with Jeyne Poole looking at him. The longer she stayed at the Dreadfort as a captive, the more desperate in her desire to escape grows. But at the same time, however, Jeyne noticed Dontar staring at her – his stern, ruthless scowl reminding her of what awaits her should she try anything. So long as Jeyne took care not to anger Ramsay or Lord Roose, neither one should find cause to harm her.

"Arya," he whispered threateningly into her ear. "Your name is Arya Stark."

Come nightfall, snowflakes had begun falling from the midnight skies. Visibly upset with the announcement of Walda's pregnancy, Ramsay had already left the hall and across the frigid yard to the Great Keep – dragging Jeyne by the arm up three flights of stone steps to Ramsay's bedchamber as he knew his position in House Bolton was immediately threatened by this unborn child; his prize, forlorn and seemingly ignored, clutched a silver goblet in both arms.

All the furnishings were new, brought up from Barrowton in the baggage train. The canopy bed had a feather mattress and drapes of blood-red velvet. The stone floor was covered with wolfskins. A fire was burning in the hearth, a candle on the bedside table. On the sideboard was a flagon of wine, two cups, and a half wheel of veined white cheese. There was a chair as well, carved of black oak with a red leather seat.

Ramsay was apparently in a bad mood. "Dontar," he called out, obviously drunk and frustrated.

"My lord. How may I serve you?"

"Let's have a look at Ned Stark's little daughter."

 _'No! I'm not Lord Eddard's daughter! Please get away from me! I want to go home!'_  Jeyne froze in terror. She backed into a nearby bedpost, trembling like a doe as Dontar approached her.

"Turn your back," he ordered. "Your gown needs to be unlaced."

"No," Ramsay poured himself a cup of wine.  _'So father thinks he means to replace me after all I've done for him?! WITH THAT LITTLE BASTARD THAT FAT BITCH'S CARRYING?! I'll show him. I'll show them all!'_  "Laces take too long. Cut it off her."

Dontar drew a dagger and grabbed a handful of Jeyne's dress. "Stand still, you brat." The gown was loose below the waist, so that was where he slid the blade in, slicing upward slowly, so as not to cut her. Steel whispered through wool and silk with a faint, soft sound. The girl was shaking. Dontar grabbed her arm to hold her still, tightening his grip. "I said stay still! You'll make Lord Ramsay here angry. You wouldn't want that to happen now, would you?"

Finally the gown fell away, a pale tangle around her feet. Jeyne instinctively moved her hands across to cover her small breasts, but Dontar roughly yanked them away – causing a slight 'eek!' to make itself known. Her breasts were small and pointed, her hips narrow and girlish, her legs as skinny as a bird's. Theon had forgotten how young she was. Despite the fire in the hearth, the bedchamber was chilly. Jeyne's pale skin was pebbled with goosebumps. There was a moment when her hands rose, as if to cover her breasts, but Dontar glared a silent no and she saw and stopped at once.

"What do you think of her, Dontar?" asked Ramsay.

"Hmm. She is beautiful, my lord."

"Please, let me go home," Jeyne whispered; her voice was breaking and shook.

Wrong thing to say. Ramsay took another gulp of wine, then threw the cup across the room to shatter off a wall. Red rivers ran down across the stone. Ramsay quickly closed the gap between him and Jeyne and slapped her face.

" _You_  will stay  _here_  and do as you're told, Lady Arya," Ramsay berated her. "Get on the bed. Yes, against the pillows. Now spread your legs. Let us see your cunt."

Jeyne trembled and brought one hand to her cheek, the flesh was pink and stung. Wordless, she reluctantly obeyed. Dontar and his men took a step back towards the door, ignoring Myranda's frightening sneer of jealousy and anger. Ramsay sat beside Jeyne, sliding his hand along her inner thigh then jammed two fingers inside her. The girl let out a gasp of pain.

"Ow! Please, my lord! It hurts!" screamed Jeyne.

"You're dry as an old bone," Ramsay frowned, the firelight shining on his face. "Dontar, get my things. Aren, get over here. Get her ready for me."

Dontar obeyed and did as he was told, leaving the room as soon as he heard clothes being ripped and a belt being undone. Treading down a flight of steps onto one of the Dreadfort's battlements, Dontar could only hear from the towers above him…

"YOU'RE HURTING ME! Aaaooww! PLEASE TAKE IT OUT! Oaww! PLEASE STOP! Aahhhh!" he heard Jeyne loudly sobbing.

 _'Foolish girl won't learn to keep quiet,'_  Dontar shook his head.

If nearly everyone within the castle could hear Jeyne Poole's crying, word of this could possibly spread to nearby regions in the North – possibly even Winterfell. Even Dontar knew this would not be permitted to leave. As soon as he was able to gather the supplies Ramsay asked him to get, the sudden silence was broken abruptly when a sword was plunged through his back – the tip of the blade shot straight out of his chest.

***SCHLOOOK!***

"Blurgh!" Dontar gargled as he spat blood out of his mouth. Barely glancing at the sword sticking out of him, a dagger was roughly pressed against his throat and sawed across the Bolton bannerman's throat.

The mysterious assailant then shoved Dontar's body over the edge of the battlements, making a loud thud once the corpse hit the ground. Once the flames lit the corner to illuminate the battlements, the assailant was revealed to be Yara Greyjoy – bloodied and bruised from her escape from Deepwood Motte.

Tossing down a rope attached to a hook, Yara climbed her way down the Dreadfort's walls and hoped into the nearest canoe. Pushing the boat off the banks of the Weeping Water, Yara wrapped the traditional House Greyjoy cloak around her shoulders and began rowing the oars through the black water—her eyes full of determination.

"Anything with a cock is easy to fool," she muttered brazenly. "But I'll soon need a new fleet. If Theon won't come with me voluntarily, then I'll head to Essos by myself then…"

* * *

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Queen Sansa Stark sat on the Iron Throne, holding each of her twins Lyonel and Cassana on her lap. Today she was holding court with Lord Hand Tyrion Lannister in place of her husband King Daveth Baratheon, who still remained bedridden due to illness. Sansa figured she would at least lessen the burden of her ill husband and assume more responsibilities in governing the Seven Kingdoms. She eased and uncomfortably shifted her position on the throne, brushing her fingers against the pommels that made up the throne itself.

And yet, there she stood. Regal, elegant, defined befitting a monarch. Sansa's new outfit donned a protective jet-black scale-type ensemble dress made of thick leather with raven feathers sewn onto her shoulders and a chain necklace around her neck.

"Today's session should be… an interesting one, Your Grace," Tyrion spoke up. "Today's dignitaries include Lord Axell of House Florent and Lord Elden of House Estermont. Both of whom have been making petitions to the crown to address some… uh, 'unpleasant activities' near Brightwater Keep and Storm's End."

Sansa nodded her head and motioned for a royal steward to pass a plate of bread and salt in observation of the Westerosi tradition of guest right. Lord Florent and Lord Estermont (whom Sansa had met once during Daveth's nameday almost a year ago) each take a piece of bread, dip it into the salt and eat it while keeping their focus solely on the Wolf Queen.

"Thank you for traveling this far, my lords," Sansa said regally. "Be welcome within our walls and at our table. One behalf of His Grace King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, I extend to you our hospitality and protection in the light of the Old Gods and the Seven."

"We thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace," Lord Axell said graciously.

Even though the two religions Faith of the Seven and Old Gods of the Forest have coexisted for more than 6,000 years following the Andal Invasion, there still tension between the most devout adherents of the two faiths. Even the High Septon raised his concerns and voiced his objections of Sansa's following both the Old Gods and the Seven from time to time; but considering how well-loved and popular the Wolf Queen was among the populace of King's Landing, some grumbling among the religiously devout have been quiet once in a while.

"You may speak."

Tyrion cleared his throat. "As I've mentioned before, there have been rather disturbing reports in certain parts of the Stormlands – even two houses of the Reach have raised their concerns about private gatherings, sighting of unfamiliar cults—"

Lord Elden spoke up. "Our people have been taken from their homes, their captives making insidious demands that their subjects convert to a foreign religion!" he proclaimed, causing a few courtiers to murmur.

"I along with our fellow lords follow the Faith of the Seven, Your Grace, as have our fathers and grandfathers before us," Axell concurred. "But when these… cults began ransacking Greenstone, Brightwater Keep, our subjects were subjected to a brutal, inhumane execution for refusing to renounce the Seven!"

Courtiers were gossiping, in shock and in horror; even Sansa Stark, who remained calm and composed, found such allegations disturbing.

"What could these cultists hope to gain by kidnapping innocent people and forcing them to convert to a religion?" she requested.

"It's difficult to say. This is not our field of expertise."

"Were they carrying a sigil?"

Elden nodded. "A crowned black stag enclosed within a red heart surrounded by an orange flame, Your Grace."

Tyrion leaned in close to Sansa. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it? Someone… not too far from us yet related to the royal family itself? An accomplished soldier, but is generally unpopular among the highborn and lowborns in Westeros?"

The Wolf Queen furrowed her brow as Lyonel and Cassana gripped their mother's dress and stretch their tiny hands up. She put pieces of the puzzles together, though she was not particularly fond of it.

"You're referring to Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone?" Sansa said.

 _'The King's own uncle…? I knew it! What a disgrace,'_  Elden fumed; Axell, on the other hand, was somewhat more reluctant.

"The Queen has asked you as question, my lords," implored Tyrion.

"Imp—" one courtier exclaimed, but was abruptly cut off.

"That's enough," Sansa interjected. "Lord Tyrion is Hand of the King. You will treat him with respect," she turned to her guests. "Continue, my lords."

"My sister… Selyse, is Lord Stannis's wife," Axell answered. "Ever since the red witch showed her face, Selyse… Selyse was no longer the same woman as she used to be. I fear that this witch has been manipulating both my sister and Lord Stannis into committing such sacrilege."

"As long as my nephew keeps that red witch around with him, the Stormlands and the rest of our people are in danger from these religious fanatics," interjected Elden.

Sansa shook her head in disbelief.  _'By the Gods, this is not going to end well,'_  she thought. "And you are absolutely certain of the charges?"

Both Elden Estermont and Axell Florent nodded in confirmation; judging by their stances, Sansa knew that they were not going to budge from their accusations. Should this be ignored, questions would be raised within the Faith of the Seven's leadership and would set the stage for a clash of faith… the worst since the Andal Invasion and Faith Militant uprising. Sansa sighed and motioned her hand over.

"Judging such accusations will affect many, but that doesn't mean the crown will sit idly by while innocent people are threatened and live in fear," she spoke. "Lady Reina Fishport."

Walking from the shadows behind one of the Red Keep Great Hall's columns with Bronn in tow, Reina knelt before the Iron Throne.

"How may I serve, Your Grace?" she asked politely.

Sansa glanced down at her. "My husband considers you to be one of his best agents. I would ask that you investigate the rumors surrounding Storm's End and Brightwater Keep. Gather whatever evidence you can and report back, but be as discreet as possible."

Reina nodded. "For King Daveth, it shall be done. The lords and ladies won't even see or hear me coming."

Nodding in understanding as Reina departed with Bronn, Sansa rose from the Iron Throne. "In the name of my husband Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, each of the regions affected by such abuse are hereby placed under the crown's protection. Those who are caught engaging in horrid rituals will be investigated and punished accordingly to the extent of the law."

Both Lord Estermont and Lord Florent were somewhat pleased, though they both remained uncertain of what the outcome might be. When they departed, the royal steward hurriedly approached the Iron Throne.

"Pardon the interruption, Your Grace," the steward panted.

Sansa raised a curious eyebrow. "Wha—"

Before he could say anything further, the Wolf Queen noticed a familiar figure approaching towards her—accompanied by Northmen guards. Although her face was covered by a blue hood, Sansa recognized her fair skin, long auburn hair, blue eyes, long fingers and cheekbones with a few wrinkles edging the corner of her mouth.

"Sansa," Catelyn lowered her cloak.

"Mother!" Sansa acknowledged.

Both mother and daughter met each other in the middle of the throne room, with the Stark matriarch embracing her eldest daughter in a warm hug. The royal steward and Lord Tyrion assumed this was their cue to leave and give them a moment of privacy. Once alone, both Catelyn and Sansa spoke to each other.

"What are you doing here?" Sansa asked, noticing how her mother's posture was slightly off. She instinctively knew that something was wrong.

Catelyn noticed too. Taking a moment to glance down at both her royal grandchildren who were eagerly stretching their hands out towards her, Catelyn forced herself to put on a smile before looking back up at Sansa.

"I apologize for not sending a raven, but I fear this is a rather serious problem I could not discuss around lingering eyes nor could we trust anyone to carry our words," she explained. "Sansa, your sister Arya, has… has disappeared."

Sansa felt stunned.  _'Gods, Arya… what have you done now?'_  she privately scorned her sister. "What do you mean 'disappeared'? Hasn't anyone seen where she might have ventured off to?"

Catelyn shook her head. "No one knows, which is why I came all the way back down here to the capital to ask a favor."

"Of course, mother. Just ask."

"Can Daveth help us find Arya?" she asked.

Sansa's expression changed; she looked concerned. "My husband… is not feeling well, mother. But perhaps I could send for the Master of Whisperers, Lord Varys. If anyone can find something or someone, it'll be him."

Catelyn and Sansa felt increasingly unnerved; both Lyonel and Cassana looked at both of them in relative confusion. A moment's pause was soon broken by the abrupt barging and entering of Ser Olyvar Frey, who by now at this point was covered in sweat and his dress shirt unbuttoned.

"Your Grace!" Olyvar called out, panting heavily. "The *huff*… I *huff*"

"Steady yourself, ser," Sansa firmly told him. "What's going on?"

Olyvar took a deep breath. "It's King Daveth. He… he…"

Sansa's eyes widened and felt as if the wind was knocked out of her. A quiet gloom had fallen over the Red Keep, over all of King's Landing. Taken by surprise at such troubling events, it seemed that more and more trouble would always appear to threaten the very foundation of all held dear and close to one's heart. But what Olyvar told Sansa… threatened to rock her to her very core.

"…He's stopped breathing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well… a dark chapter ending with a cliff hanger. I absolutely hated writing the first part of the chapter and feel an overwhelming desire to accelerate the plotline to have Robb Stark attack House Bolton once word of "Arya" was being horribly mistreated at the Dreadfort – not yet knowing that it was in fact Jeyne Poole. And Sansa Stark is also going to be so furious when she learns that her childhood best friend is being abused by such an evil bastard.
> 
> But the dreaded news Olyvar Frey spat out… any interpretation as to what Daveth Baratheon's fate would be? Thoughts? Let me know.


	100. Attack at Daznak's Pit

**In Meereen…**

* * *

Queen Daenerys Targaryen sat in the spectator's seat at the top of the pit to observe the first day of the Great Games at the Daznak's Pit, the greatest of the fighting pits in Meereen with an open seat between her and Missandei. Her intended betrothed, Hizdahr zo Loraq, sat next to her. With the Unsullied, Second Sons and Meereenese City Guard patrolling the city-state after the Sons of the Harpy launched their attack which killed Daenerys' predecessor Saqnizza Dhardu, a lot of people were on edge—each of them wondering when the next attack might occur. Grey Worm, commander of the Unsullied, and Daario Naharis, leader of the Second Sons, stood close to Daenerys to ensure her safety.

Covering the fighting pits displayed the banners of House Targaryen, a red three-headed dragon on a black field. As the Dragon Queen stared bored into the fighting pits, an announcer steps into the middle and waves his arm to silence the cheering crowd.

"Dāez issaros hen Mīrīn! (Free citizens of Meereen)," he announced. "Ondoso se jorepagon hen kraj se zirȳla dārōñe se dāria, rytsas naejot se rōvēgrie tymptir! (By the blessings of the Graces and Her Majesty the Queen, welcome to the Great Games!)"

The entire stadium thundered with applause and cheers as two gladiators ran out into the middle of the arena. Daenerys and Missandei look disgusted, Daario looked impressed. Ten thousand throats roared out their thanks; then twenty thousand; then all. They did not call her name, which few of them could pronounce. "Mother!" they cried instead; in the old dead tongue of Ghis, the word was Mhysa! They stamped their feet and slapped their bellies and shouted, "Mhysa, Mhysa, Mhysa," until the whole pit seemed to tremble.

"Ñuha dāria, īlva ēlī urnēptre. Qilōni kessa ērinagon: se kostōba iā se adere? (My Queen, our first contest. Who will win: the strong or the quick?)"

"Nyke vīlībagon se morghūljagon syt aōha jaqiarzir, oh jaqiarzus dāria (I fight and die for your glory, oh glorious queen)," both men proclaimed proudly in Valyrian.

Daenerys glanced down at the large, yet powerful and small, but agile combatants as the announcer moved to walk away. The Daznak's Pit fell silent as the spectators—as all eyes—turned towards the Dragon Queen, expecting her to begin the Great Games. Hizdahr leaned in to Daenerys.

"They're waiting for you. Clap your hands," he explains.

Daenerys looks down at the two men. After a moment, and with a look of disgust on her face, she brought her hands up to give a single clap. The crowd roars with excitement and the two gladiators begin a vicious fight. Both appeared to be equally skilled in their respective fields of expertise, with the strong overpowering his opponent while the small outmaneuvered the other. After some parries, the Quick man slices at the Strong man's neck.

"That one, the smaller man, no question," Daario betted, "that's where you put your money."

"I'm not putting my money anywhere," replied Daenerys.

Hizdahr looked at her and Daario. "Kings and queens never bet on the games. Perhaps you should go find someone who does."

The Second Sons leader turned towards him. "People used to bet against me when I fought in the pits. He would have bet against me. Common novice mistake."

"I have spent much of my life in Meereen, and in my experience, larger men do triumph over smaller man, far more often than not."

Daenerys raised an eyebrow. "Has your experience ever involved any actual fighting? You, yourself, have you ever tried to kill a man that was trying to kill you?" she challenged.

For a moment, Hizdahr is silent.

"Whenever I got into the pit against a beast like that one, the crowd saw me, all skin and bone back then, then they saw a pile of angry muscles ready to murder me. They couldn't get their money out fast enough," Daario brandishes a small yet sharp dagger; putting it dangerously close to each parts of Hizdahr's throat. "But the pile of angry muscles never had any muscles here or here. And the big men were always too slow to stop my dagger from going where their muscles weren't. Yes, whenever I saw a beast like that one, standing across from me making his beast faces, I knew I could rest easy."

Unfortunately for the sellsword, the agile fighter was swiftly decapitated by the much larger combatant's greatsword with one quick stroke. Hizdahr smiles and Daario turns away looking visibly angry; pit workers arrive to carry away to decapitated head out of the arena, leaving a trail of blood behind. The announcer soon returned to the arena.

"Īlon epagon arlī: qilōni kessa ērinagon? (We ask again: who will triumph?)," he asks. "Iā Mīrīno kosh … iā mēre hen lanta Vesterozia azantys?! (A Meereenese champion… or one of the two Westerosi knights?!)"

In that instant, the crowd immediately switched from cheering to jeering. Daenerys, meanwhile, looked suddenly surprised at the announcer's words and shifted her position in her chair and observed a Dothraki, a Summer Islander with a halberd, a Braavosi Water Dancer and two knights. One knight was missing two fingers on his left hand, leaving only a thumb, index and pinky covered by a cloth covered in dried blood; wore a ragged and torn, yet red and white leather vest with a red and white griffon on each end. His physical appearance bore crow's feet at the corner of his pale, blue eyes and reddish-grey hair and beard.

The other combatant, however, bore leather armor with steel plates attached, leather armguards and a pale yellow shirt. Both men Daenerys, Missandei and Daario recognized all too well.

"Nyke vīlībagon se morghūljagon syt aōha jaqiarzir, oh jaqiarzus dāria (I fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen)," shouted Jon Connington.

"Nyke vīlībagon se morghūljagon syt aōha jaqiarzir, oh jaqiarzus dāria (I fight and die for your glory, oh glorious Queen)," Jorah Mormont similarly exclaimed.

Daenerys doesn't acknowledge Connington; her sights focused primarily on Mormont. She hadn't seen him since she banished him from her company for what felt like a lifetime ago when his treachery was exposed… after Jorah was forced to confess. Both hold back emotion.

After a tense pause, Daenerys claps. Jorah nods while Connington begins to fight off his attackers. The fighting has begun, with Daenerys' eyes primarily following Jorah. He takes a blow to the mouth, is knocked down and starts bleeding. Connington struggles to keep pace with the Water Dancer, but is quick to figure his opponent's fighting style and fight him off. Jorah gets up, has his sword knocked away by the Summer Islander, and pulls out a dagger. He wrestles with the man trying to choke him, throws him off, then stabs him in the chest. He pulls the dagger out, looking at Daenerys, throws it away, and picks up his longsword.

Jorah squares off against a flashy Dothraki fighter that just brutally stabbed another fighter through the back. He slices Jorah in the cheek. The other two fighters square off, with a heavily armored fighter wielding a spear killing his opponent. The crowd cheers.

Jorah's opponent slices Jorah's arm then knocks him over, knocking his sword out of his hand. He holds his blade to Jorah's throat. Both he and Jorah look to Daenerys.

The fighter holds his blade to Jorah's throat. He is about to make a move when Connington comes over and stabs Jorah's opponent in the back, killing him. Jorah gets up and faces the final opponent. Jorah matches the spearman, is knocked over, but catches the spear before it reaches his throat. He gets back up and the two face off again. Jorah spins, somersaults to avoid contact as Connington catches the Summer Islander off-guard, allowing Mormont to stab him through the stomach, killing him. As the Meereenese spectators boo and jeer at the Westerosi, both men looks up to Daenerys.

With a silent nod from Connington, Jorah reaches for the fallen Summer Islander's spear, picks it up and hurls it towards Daenerys' seat. Daario instinctively rushes to protect Daenerys and everyone else gets out of the way, but to everyone's surprise… it connects with a Son of the Harpy, hidden among the spectators.

"What the—?!" Hizdahr exclaims with shock.

Daario turns to look behind him, and notices more Sons of the Harpy donning golden masks rising from the crowd and menacingly brandished their daggers as the Meereenese crowd began screaming in terror and try to flee the arena—occasionally tripping over each other and jamming the exits in their haste to be away. Others followed. Some ran, shoving at one another. More stayed in their seats.

"Protect your Queen!" Daario barked.

The Sons of the Harpy start slitting the throats of former slaves and Unsullied in the crowd. Unsullied guards, city watchmen and Daario surround Daenerys and Missandei, fighting off the Harpys. Hizdahr starts running towards Daenerys.

"Your Grace, Your Grace, come with me!" he shouts. "I know a way out! I know a way—"

Before he could finish, however, Hizdahr was cut off as several Sons of the Harpy swarmed around him and repeatedly began stabbing him in the chest over and over again.

They run at Daenerys, before Daario takes out one of them. Both Jorah and Connington come up from the pit to take Hizdahr's spot and take out the other. Mormont offers his hand to Daenerys and she takes it. He leads her down to the pit with Daario and the Unsullied, leaving Connington and Missandei.

"Stay behind me, khaleesi!" he shouts, leading her to a nearby exit. Unfortunately, their escape path was locked from the other side. A Son of the Harpy steps out and rushes towards Daenerys, but Mormont easily dispatches the assassin.

Back at the pit, a Son of the Harpy appeared towards Missandei and rushes at her, but Connington elbows him in the jaw and kicks the back of the assassin's knees out from under him, forcing him to the ground. Connington forcibly slits the Harpy's throat and pushes him down the steps.

"Come with me, child!" he told Missandei, who nods and follows him down to the pit. "Unsullied, move into position! Protect your Queen!"

Jorah, Daario, and the Unsullied form a ring around Missandei, Daenerys and Connington in the center of the pit. Sons of the Harpy begin to rush from the other exit they were heading towards them. Everyone in the center was able to fight off and kill most of the Harpys, but there were far too many of them to handle. It was only a matter of time before the Targaryen host would be overwhelmed.

"We're outnumbered  _and_ trapped. Got any strategies to get us out of this mess, old man?" Daario glares at the Sons of the Harpys surrounding them.

"Stay focused, boy," Connington barked. "We make our stand here. Show no quarter, give no ground."

They surround the ring, testing out the outer ring before they begin rushing. A few make it past the outer ring but are killed by Daario and Connington. Missandei and Daenerys join hands and Daenerys closes her eyes.

***SKREEEEEE!***

A roar is heard in the distance. When a shadow rippled across the arena, the tumult and the shouting died. Connington, Jorah, Missandei, Daario and Daenerys look up, as do all the Harpys. Every eye turned skyward. A warm wind brushed Dany's cheeks, and above the beating of her heart she heard the sound of wings.

Then… in a plume of fire, a dragon distinguished by its black scales and red-black wings circling the pit; its eyes and horns and spinal plates blood red. Ever the largest of her three, in the wild Drogon had grown larger still. Its wings stretched twenty feet from tip to tip, black as jet. It flapped them once as he swept back above the sands, and the sound was like a clap of thunder.

"That's—" Daario said, mouth wide open.

"Drogon!" Daenerys exclaimed.

Upon landing on the ground, Drogon opened its mouth and breathed a wall of fire at the Sons of the Harpy, scattering several of the assassins away from Daenerys to the edge of the pit. One unfortunate Harpy had the foolish audacity to charge at Daenerys, but is grabbed by Drogon and crunches down with his jaws and tears into his flesh with his razor sharp teeth. Shaking its head from side-to-side, Drogon gave a massive chomp and rips the Harpy in half.

As morale of the Sons of the Harpy began to drop sharply, Drogon breathed fire on four to five of them at a time before a Harpy thrusted an iron spear into the air and hits the dragon in the back of its long scaled neck.

***RRAAAAARRRHH!***

Drogon roars in pain as two more spears connect and its movement's start to become sluggish. The assassin leaned into his spear, using his weight to twist the point in deeper. Drogon arched upward with a hiss of pain and lashed its tail sideways. Daenerys watched as the Harpy lost his footing and went tumbling back onto the sand. Before he could struggle to his feet, Drogon's jaws closed hard around his forearm and wrenched his arm from his shoulder and tossed it aside.

"Ossēnagon ziry! (Kill it!)" one of the Sons of the Harpy shouted. "Ossēnagon se dyni! (Kill the beast!)"

"No!" Daenerys shouted, twisting herself free from Jorah's grasp.

The Sons of the Harpy remained jerking on the sand, blood pouring from the ragged stump of his shoulder. His spear remained in Drogon's back, wobbling as the dragon beat its wings. Smoke rose from the wound. As the other spears closed in, Drogon spat fire, bathing two men in black flame. Its tail lashed sideways and caught another Harpy creeping up behind him, breaking him in two. Another attacker stabbed at his eyes until the dragon caught him in its jaws and tore his belly out.

"Drogon!" she screamed. "Drogon!"

Jon Connington noticed her rushing towards her dragon. "What are you doing, child?! Get back here!" he shouted after Daenerys.

Hearing someone calling its name loudly to get its attention, Drogon turn its head. Smoke rose between his teeth. Its blood was smoking too, where it dripped upon the ground. It beat its wings again, sending up a choking storm of scarlet sand. Dany stumbled into the hot red cloud, coughing. He snapped and roared.

***RRAAAAAARRGH!***

Daenerys froze.  _'No,'_  she tried to say.  _'Drogon, don't you know me?'_

Drogon's teeth snapped within inches from her face. The dragon's long scaled neck stretched toward her. When its mouth opened, Daenerys could see bits of broken bone and charred flesh between Drogon's black teeth. Drogon roared full in her face again, his breath hot enough to blister skin.

"Your Grace! Come back!" Daario pleaded.

Connington groaned in frustration.  _'They'd better get here in time…'_

In the smoldering red pits of Drogon's eyes, Daenerys Targaryen saw her own reflection. How small she looked compared to the largest and aggressive of her three dragons. Slowly, Daenerys' feet scrabbled in the sand, pushing against the Sons of the Harpy's corpse. Drogon roared again, the sound so loud that she almost flinched. His teeth snapped at her.

"No," she said firmly, placing her hand on Drogon's snout. The dragon jerked its head back. "No, Drogon," she said again. Reaching her other hand out, Daenerys grabs the spear lodged into Drogon's neck and pulled back, yanking the spear out of him and flung it aside. The point was half-melted, the iron red-hot, glowing.

The dragon roared again, but then closes its mouth. Sensing her dragon's distress, Daenerys rubbed her hand against Drogon's nose. His long serpentine neck bent like an archer's bow. The silver-haired Queen gave a small smile, knowing that Drogon was finally calming down and seemed to look at her with love and affection. Daenerys reached out to touch him, but Drogon was suddenly pierced by yet another spear and turns to them and bellows another loud, threatening roar.

***HISSSSSSS!***

As the fighting around them continued to rage, Daario and Connington continue fighting off every Harpy that comes near Daenerys. In the meantime, Daenerys slowly begins to climb onto Drogon's back. His wings beat once, twice… Drogon twisted, his muscles rippling as the dragon gathered its strength.

"Sōvegon (Fly)…" Daenerys commanded.

Tightly clutching onto Drogon's scales, Daenerys felt her dragon begin to shift and shudder its center of gravity before charging towards the Harpys. Drogon's wide black wings beat harder and harder and kicked itself off the ground and into the air to take flight. Flying out of the Daznak's Pit and past the Great Pyramid, Daenerys held on while Drogon roared as it flew away from Meereen with Daenerys Targaryen still on its back.

Connington, Mormont, Missandei and Daario watched as their Queen flew high into the sky and out of sight, staring up in awe and wonder.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

Each of the surrounding Harpys turned to hear the sounds of loud banging against the Daznak's Pit's gates grow more frequent before one finally burst open to reveal dozens of armed, armored soldiers storming the arena on horseback with a rather large grey-skinned, hairless war animal. The beast had a long trunk, two sets of tusks and large ears.

***BARAGG!***

Connington smiled triumphantly. "About time they showed up," he said.  _'There is not a warhorse in all of Westeros that will stand against them…'_

Daario looked confused. "Who's 'they'?"

"You'll see for yourself soon enough, boy. Just kill these sons of bitches!"

Startled by the arrival of unexpected reinforcements and frozen by the size of large animals, each of the remaining Sons of the Harpy was easily dispatched by the Unsullied and their untimely rescuers. Dozens of high-ranking officers on their horses swung their blades, a few were trampled beneath their horses' hooves. Any of the Harpys that tried to fight back or retreat all met the same fate, all whilst their cries were drowned out by their war cry.

"Beneath the gold, the bitter steel!" they bellowed.

Sheathing his blade back into his side, Connington approached the officers once the last Sons of the Harpy were wiped out. Daario's face froze in astonishment as he recognized the war cry and the attire their saviors were wearing: jeweled swords, inlaid golden armor, heavy torcs and fine silks. Many wore golden arm rings, with each ring signifying one year's service.

"Th-the… You… you hired the-the Golden Company?!" Daario exclaimed.

One of the officers, a Summer Islander archer, had white hair with skin as dark as soot and wore a feathered cloak of green and–magnificent to behold–with a lord's ransom in golden arm rings.

"Black Balaq," Connington praised, "my friend."

Balaq got off his mount and approached his former comrade. "You always did find glory in adventures and battles, Connington. Shame you left the Golden Company. We could have used you."

"So I've heard. No matter. I suppose Homeless Harry hasn't stopped complaining about his feet?"

"No, 'fraid so," he mused. "A mark of weakness, it is. The men believe Commander Strickland to be a coward and should have stayed as the company paymaster. It suited him just fine rather than captain-general."

"Shame that the last client recommended him in the first place; no wonder why so many wealthy clientele often mock the Golden Company nowadays."

"Yet they always fail to comprehend that the Golden Company is the largest and most skilled sellsword company in Essos. And we've never broken a contract. I take it your friend back there has heard of us?"

Connington noticed Daario's continued sputtering. "Without question; have the rest of you received the payment I sent you?"

"We did," Lysono Maar interjected.

"Must've been quite an offer for you to reach out to us like this, given the amount of gold you had to shit out the arse," Franklyn Flowers laughed.

"Indeed."

"So… what's the contract?"

Connington folded his arms, giving an atmosphere of confidence and boldness. "There is no time to waste now, so listen up." He cleared his throat. "Dozens of sellswords in the Golden Company have been made up of Westerosi exiles and other nationals. We've been through thick and thin, never once haven broken a contract – so long as the job was done and we all got paid for it. Money was but one factor for this mercenary company, the other was to flex our muscles and demonstrate our power to the world. But there's a reason why I left and why I chose to go out of my way to extend an offer."

"Well, what's the plan then?!" said Tristan Rivers impatiently.

"Years ago, a few of us fought against the usurper, Robert Baratheon. I fought in that war, to defend House Targaryen as the rightful monarchs to sit on the Iron Throne of Westeros. It has since been tainted by the stench of the usurper and his offspring. I spent years in exile detailing every strategy, every tactic… Word has reached me across the Narrow Sea that Tywin Lannister is dead, and the usurper's son is on death's door after a sudden illness took him. Even after a century, some of us still have friends in Westeros. I've already made sure of that. The Seven Kingdoms will never be more vulnerable and ripe for conquest. How would you like to undertake a contract that the Golden Company cannot afford to pass up?"

Rivers was smiling in approval. Others traded thoughtful looks. Then Peake approached.

"I'd rather die in Westeros than on the demon road," he said.

Marq Mandrake chuckled. "Me, I'd sooner live, win lands and some great castle."

"So long as I can kill some Fossoways, I'm for it," Franklyn Flowers slapped his sword hilt.

Connington smirked wickedly. "Then do you accept?"

"So long as Homeless Harry stops bitching about his feet, we'll take it," Black Balaq proclaimed.

"The contract… Sail across the Narrow Sea with Daenerys Targaryen, ferry her armies and retake the Seven Kingdoms."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One year later, and we've now finally reached the milestone of 100 Chapters in total! Whew! Wow, what a journey this has been. But wait! We're nowhere near close to being done just yet.
> 
> As Daenerys Targaryen flies off into the distance on Drogon's back, it's later revealed that Jon Connington has reached out (and paid heavily) to his old mercenary company, the Golden Company. In an act of secrecy, Connington has apparently hired the largest mercenaries in Essos to assist the Targaryen forces in retaking the Seven Kingdoms. Do you guys believe the inevitable battle between Daveth Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen will be even tougher? Will one side have a key advantage over the other? Will they be evenly matched? Let me know.
> 
> On a side note, keep in mind that the first episode of Game of Thrones Season 8 will premiere tomorrow April 14th on HBO 9:00 PM ET. Stay tuned for more updates!
> 
> And remember,
> 
> #ForTheThrone  
> #WinterIsComing


	101. Contemplation, Self-Reflection (Part 1)

**In the Red Keep…**

* * *

Sansa Stark rushed throughout the Red Keep, lifting the front of her dress to avoid tripping over herself as her mother Catelyn and Shae moved to keep pace with the visibly distressed Queen of Winter. When Ser Olyvar Frey hurriedly informed her that her husband, King Daveth I Baratheon—who remained bedridden due to serious illness—had suddenly stopped breathing… all color drained from Sansa's face. Catelyn and Shae held Lyonel and Cassana in their arms as they moved to keep up with Sansa, all the while the twins were bawling their eyes out.

"*Waah! Waah!*"

_'Please no,'_  Sansa panicked, feeling her heartbeat tick a bit faster.

Eventually they reached the bedroom to find dozens of septas and Grand Maester Pycelle tending to the unresponsive Daveth, with Tommen, Margaery, Myrcella, Trystane, Jaime and Barristan watching over him.

"Move! Gods have mercy; get us some more ice he's burning up!" Septa Rosyn shouted. "We need to bring His Grace's temperature down! And clear out his trachea of any harmful fluid so the King can start breathing again!"

One of the healers pushed Grand Maester Pycelle aside and repeatedly pressing up and down against Daveth's chest, trying to jumpstart his heart. "One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand… Come on, Your Grace, breathe!"

"Please be all right, brother," Myrcella's voice shook.

Trystane Martell placed a hand on Myrcella's shoulder, doing whatever he could to calm her down to ease her distress. Tommen felt helpless at the medical staff's attempts at resuscitating the motionless Daveth Baratheon, with Margaery exchanging an uncertain (yet curious) glance at Pycelle.

The room doors flung open and in came in a stumbling Queen Sansa Stark, her long auburn hair was messy with a few bangs hanging in front of her face. Catelyn and Shae were not too far behind her and entered into the room as well; Catelyn was equally surprised at the sudden state of affairs—piecing the pieces of the puzzles together when her eldest daughter informed her of her son-in-law's condition; one septa wore a pair sanitary gloves on both her hands and stuck two fingers down the King's throat, trying to clear out any residue.

"Daveth…" Sansa piped.

Pycelle looked at her. "Oh, uh… Your Grace, we-we're doing everything we can, but, as you can see… the King is not responding. Oh, but rest assured we—"

The Wolf Queen didn't listen and moved to the bedside, brushing right past him. "How is my husband? What's wrong with him?" she asked Septa Rosyn.

"He's got severe pneumonia, Your Grace," she answered while dabbing cold wet washcloths on the King's forehead, "but I've never seen an infection like this become so acute or aggressive."

"Can you do something for him?"

"We're doing everything we possibly can. It's only a matter of time before—"

"Before what?!"

Septa Rosyn shook her head dreadfully, not liking what she's about to say next. "Your husband… He isn't just ill, Your Grace. He's dying."

Sansa's eyes widened, her eyebrows sloped outwards and her mouth dropped in disbelief, shocked and horrified—her mind having a difficult time processing the information. Her hands slowly shook and her distress levels rose greatly.

"What…? No, no it can't be," Sansa's lip trembled quietly. Instead of giving into despair, the Wolf Queen furiously shook her head. "No, I-I won't let it happen! Tell me, Septa. What do I need to do?"

"*Waah! Waah!*"

Pycelle looked at her. "Ah, uh, your-your desire to help save the King is…. admirable, Your Grace, but if the sickness has grown more aggressive as the, uh, kind Septa believes… then-then I'm afraid there's nothing to be done."

That remarked angered Sansa. "I don't believe that, Grand Maester. And neither do you," she said firmly, all while struggling to control her emotions. Rolling up her sleeves, she stood tall. "I love my husband. What kind of wife would I be if I stood on the sidelines and do nothing for my family? I already lost my father years ago, but I  _won't_  let my son and daughter grow up without one. Do you hear me?"

Catelyn observed her daughter's tone. Now THAT was true love and devotion, even if the effort to save Daveth's life appeared to grow more strenuous as did the seeming impossibilities. After wiping her eyes dry, Sansa pleaded with Rosyn again.

"Tell me what needs to be done to save my husband's life, Septa, please…"

_'So young,'_  the senior Septa thought. "There's a tourniquet on the counter there," she points in a single direction. "Tie it tightly around the King's left arm until you see a vein."

Taking a few quick breaths, Sansa immediately sprang into action. She walked over and grabbed a nearby tourniquet and began tying it around Daveth's left arm above the elbow, squeezing it until she noticed one small vein making itself visible. She tapped the area with her index and middle fingers lightly.

"Very good. Now, there's a needle to your left with antibiotics. Take a cotton ball and dip it in alcohol. Dab it onto and around the vein to prevent any last-second infection from occurring before sticking the injection in."

Dipping the cotton ball in a small vial of alcohol, Sansa dabbed the vein and the skin attentively. She was receiving her first instructions on properly applying medicine, but this wasn't the time to practice properly—this was a new experience for the Wolf Queen. Regardless, Sansa was on an emotional mission of her own. Once she finished wiping Daveth's arm, she cautiously picked up the needle and filled the vial with the antibiotics Septa Rosyn pointed out to. Tapping the needle, Sansa carefully pressed the tip onto Daveth's arm and pressed it into his skin as gently as possible before taking another small tourniquet to keep it in place.

_'Daveth, my dearest one… don't you dare do this to me,'_  her thoughts raced.  _'Don't leave us, not after everything we've been though.'_

"All right, now let's get this into his system," Rosyn sighed exhausted.

Prince Tommen, having watched the whole ordeal take place in front of him, shook his head. "I want to help!" he blurted out. His mind raced back to a certain individual he encountered quite some time ago, wondering if they were still here.

Jaime looked at his 'nephew.' "You haven't had any—"

"I WON'T JUST SIT HERE AND WATCH MY BROTHER DIE!" he continued shouting. "I know someone who can help! She says she's seen this before, and can treat him!"

Before anyone can say anything, Tommen immediately ran out of the room and charged down the halls of the Red Keep as fast as his legs could carry him despite others calling out for him. The Young Cub ignored people, including those he unintentionally knocked over in the race to a certain apartment complex. His mind was primarily focused on Daveth, and the fear in the pit of his stomach at the mere thought of losing his eldest brother.

_'Please still be there, lady,'_  he huffed.  _'Hold on, brother. Just hold on!'_

Unbeknownst to young Tommen, Ariyana Dayne observed from behind a nearby pillar—without the attire of the Kingsguard. Still under investigation and confined to the Red Keep for judgment, she was closely observing the situation of events occurring within the city and out via three "little birds". Sighing in resignation, she turned to one of the boys.

"What news do you have?" she asks.

"One of the groups that we've been hearing a lot of about is a group calling themselves 'the R'hllor'," one piped up. "Lord Varys says they're a cult, religious fanatics; capturing and burning people alive if they don't convert to worship their God. The other…"

"What other?"

Another little bird spoke softly. "Sparrows, they're called. More religious fanatics. Led by an old man called 'the High Sparrow.' They somehow made their way into the city."

_'Hmm. R'hllor and the Sparrows… neither of them would have dared set foot in the capital if Tywin Lannister was still around or if Daveth Baratheon was still up and around. Perhaps they think with the Oathkeeper indisposed, they could make their move…'_  she thought.

"Lady?" a third interrupted. "What about the sweets you promised us?"

Ariyana snapped back into reality. "Yes, of course," she reaches into her pockets and gives them candies. "Here you go. Now, return to the streets. Inform the Spider of everything that's going on. And… don't forget to tell the Queen."

Eagerly the little birds took their prize and ran off, leaving Ariyana alone with her thoughts once more. She glanced behind her at the door to the King's quarters before venturing to return to the White Sword Tower.

"I know that forgiveness has to be earned, not automatic," she hummed. "Soon. Very soon. We'll meet again."

* * *

**Somewhere within the dream world…**

* * *

Encompassing a region of plains, forests, hills and a large river stream, an individual was laying on the field of grass… sleeping soundly as the rays of the sun shined brightly on the landscape. Black of hair, blue of eyes… Daveth Baratheon's chest rose and fell, dreaming pleasantly. As birds chirped and butterflies flew, one insect landed on the tip of his nose. Twitching slightly, Daveth brushed his hand across his nose and grumbly opened his eyes.

**«** **Mmmm. Uhhh…?** **»**  he grumbled.

Lifting himself up to stand on his own two feet, the Young Stag rubbed his eyes and took a moment to gather his thoughts before turning his head to take in his surroundings.

**«** **Where in the world am I?**   **»**  The more Daveth looked around, feeling as if the ground beneath him was nothing more than a mere illusion, the more uncertain he became.  ** _'Strange… I don't remember being here before, but something about this place… is familiar,'_**  he thought.

Moving his legs forward, the Young Stag trekked through the field trying to understand his surroundings. Although the scenario was new, considering the last time something like this happened it was more… darker, depressing and the moisture of the ground was thick like the aftermath of a terrible storm. Here, it was more… calm. Serene, tranquil. Tall strands of dried wheat brushed past his fingertips.

Daveth continued examining his surroundings before ultimately arriving at a large lake. Glancing towards it he noticed two individuals sitting on a large fallen log near dozens of cherry blossom trees around a makeshift campfire—despite it being an apparent sunny day, smoke rose from the pit and the sound of conversations and laughter soon reached his ears.

_[Chorus]_

_–Persecution of the masses_ **[1]  
** _–Sacred blessings count for nothing_

Out of curiosity, the Young Stag cautiously made his way over—still uncertain as what to make of it all. The closer he got, he noticed both of them had lay down onto the ground two sets of opposing banners entailing their respective houses: a crowned black stag on a gold field, and a grey direwolf on a white field. Recognizing the sigil, Daveth slowly picked up the pace and made his approach. As he got closer, he could hear more of their conversations.

_"Beh, it's been a long time since being in the afterlife, Ned. But I still remember every face,"_  one said, his tone of voice was deep and rough.

_"We had our moment a long time ago, Robert. Now it's up to the younger generation to carry on the task,"_  replied the other.

Daveth stopped and blinked. He recognized those two voices.  _Robert?_  That was his father's name! Though the moment Daveth took another step forward, the sound of a twig snapping in two grabbed their attention. Turning their heads sideways, the Young Stag shook his head in disbelief and rubbed his eyes to be absolutely certain at the sight. He couldn't believe who he saw.

Once again, Daveth shared another encounter with not just one but two apparitions: Robert Baratheon, still an obese red-faced man with dark circles under his eyes and a wild, thick, fierce black beard with several strands of grey; Eddard Stark, still donned on a Northmen leather lamellar, long face and long brown hair with a closely-trimmed beard with strands of grey.

_"Well, well! Look who just shows up out of nowhere!"_ Robert's ghost bellowed.

Eddard's spirit furrowed his brow in surprise.  _"Daveth?"_

**« Father… Lord Stark.** **»**

_"What are you doing here?"_  Eddard asked.  _"We thought you'd still be in King's Landing."_

_"Bah! What does it matter anyway, Ned? He's here now. Boy! Sit with us."_

Confused, Daveth surprisingly moved to sit himself down onto the log.  **« I don't understand. What is this place?** **»**

_"What don't you understand? We're dead, you're here. That's it."_

_"I think what Robert is trying to say, Daveth, is that we've been watching you for quite some time. Here, a netherworld between life and death. Some tend to loiter around this particular location so the loved ones we left behind are never alone. That they'll always know we're always with them."_

**« You make it sound so… philosophical; spiritual, even.** **»**

_–Oh God  
_ _–Give us your protection_

Eddard chuckled.  _"When you put it that way, I suppose it does."_

**« A lot has changed in the years since the two of you left the world. Most events… have been rather unpleasant.** **»**

_"I don't deny it. We know about the Iron Islands, about the Trial by Seven."_

Daveth felt his throat tighten.  **« Then you know why…?** **»**

_"Pfff! I was right in the end, you know!"_  Robert belched, wiping his mouth after guzzling down a jug of wine.  _"You'll have it worse than I did… but at least you gave it everything you had, boy."_

**« I'm no longer a child, father. I'm almost 21.** **»**

_"I know. Want to know how I know? 'Cause of those scars,"_  he pointed to Daveth's face.  _"Blackwater Bay, Moat Cailin, the Iron Islands, the Trial by Seven… Sounds like you've been through hell and back. Gods, I wish I could have seen it!"_

_"Come now, Robert. Even in the afterlife you still torment your own son,"_  Eddard scolded.

_"Ehhh, what he needs is a good chug of wine to clear his head,"_  Robert handed Daveth a flask.  _"Drink. It'll make you feel good."_

Daveth glanced down at the flask offered to him. Deep down, a part of him hated being reminded of his father's constant drinking; but at the same time, the Young Stag was still somewhat hesitant as to whether or not to actually partake in it—uncertain as to whether or not any of this was actually real.

The Young Stag went for broke, snatching the flask out of Robert's hand and taking a huge swill. The wine was a bit potent than expected, causing Daveth to begin coughing and choking on the fluids as it slid down his throat.

**« *cough, cough!* *cough, cough!*** **»**

Robert laughed.  _"Hahahaha! Finally, the boy's taken the plunge!"_

Daveth wiped his mouth and cleared his throat.  **« *cough!* I hate you so much!** **»**

_"You drank it too fast,"_  Eddard pointed out.  _"Try to pace yourself next time."_

Shaking his head, Daveth glanced at his reflection in the lake. A cool breeze blew past them all.

_"This is the Pool of Reflection,"_  he explained.  _"It's a tool we use to glimpse into the real world, like a window. Only a few can be opened from this side; but only a few. Not all the resources here open a path of observation to the world we know."_

**« If not anywhere in Westeros, then…?** **»**

_"Places… in between, like this one. It's difficult to describe. One cannot remain looking through a Pool of Reflection forever. Look closely."_

As the Young Stag observed closely, Eddard Stark tapped the 'lake' – causing several ripples on the surface; small cloud-like fogs quickly formed around them which generated familiar glimpses into the world.

_–Let no blame lie at the innocents  
_ _–Who have prayed_

**« You… use this as a way to see us?** **»**  Daveth asked.

Robert nodded.  _"Still not sure about it myself; Seven hells, it makes my head spin. But yes, it's how we see you."_

Daveth narrowed his eyes. He could see Riverrun, the Eyrie, Casterly Rock, Winterfell, Sunspear… and King's Landing. The thought of seeing his own home like this, in this apparent dreamlike world still hadn't settled in yet. He was slightly unsettled.

_"Tell us about the children,"_  said Eddard.

The Young Stag flinched.  ** _'Lyonel, Cassana… Sansa,'_**   **« They… are a delight, father-in-law. Quite a handful, but still; I only regret that the both of you were not there with us to see them being born.** **»**

_"Eh, you sound surprised by that,"_  even Robert was surprised.

**« …More than you know, father. Sansa says our son looks a great deal like me. Only time will tell if that statement proves to be true. As for Cassana, she… she looks just like her mother. She'll be a great beauty someday. You would've been fond of them.** **»**  the Young Stag replied quietly, almost a whisper.

At the mere mention of his own family, Daveth grew quiet, withdrawn. Perhaps it was the thought of not being them at all or the fear of the unknown of what event might be bestowed upon them (just or unjust) without him present. Nothing made sense to him—being in the afterlife with his late father and father-in-law like this. Who's to say what is true and what isn't? If this was a dream, then it would be so. But if not… then Daveth felt he was breaking a solemn promise he swore to Eddard Stark years ago.

**« Tell me,** **»**  he spoke up,  **« am I… dead?** **»**

Both Robert and Eddard's spirits looked upon each other; none of them said anything before Eddard finally interjected.

_"I'm afraid so, Daveth. I'm sorry if it's something you don't wish to hear,"_  he said reluctantly.

Daveth sighed sadly.  **« An honest answer, Lord Stark, if not a reassuring one…** **»**

_–If your high praise is all we have  
_ _–Let us not be without you_

**…TO BE CONTINUED…**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter ending in a cliffhanger as the stage is set for Part 2, just as you've seen in a few chapters prior to this one. So rest assured the other half will continue as planned. Sansa Stark is understandably upset, but she's not sitting on the sidelines as a bystander and is actively jumping into the fray in the attempt to save Daveth's life. Tommen, meanwhile, has wandered off to find someone he claims can help. Care to guess who that might be? As for Ariyana Dayne, meanwhile, she's obviously been keeping herself occupied with the Lord of Light zealots sprouting around as well as these Sparrows who've suddenly made their presence known in King's Landing.
> 
> How do you guys think this'll all turn out once word reaches the Red Keep? Thoughts? Let me know.
> 
> On a side note, I'd like to point out that as you can see the issue such as religion or beliefs regarding an afterlife and what it entails are normally not my field of expertise. Not something I'm used to. So sorry, apologies if I offend someone!
> 
> [1] "Persecution of the Masses" — composed by Shiro Sagisu


	102. Contemplation, Self-Reflection (Part 2)

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Prince Tommen continued sprinting throughout the halls of the Red Keep, panting heavily as he searched from room-to-room for a certain individual he believes can help his brother Daveth recover. None of that mattered at the moment; only searching for assistance. Finally, Tommen reached a certain room and found the red priestess Vaeraleah packing her belongings, apparently readying herself to apparently leave the capital.

"You have been making quite a ruckus, young one," she said calmly.

Tommen panted, still catching his breath. "*huff!* *huff!* I… I need your help!" he said.

"Oh? And what prompted you to leave your brother's bedside to seek me out?"

 _'So she does know,'_  he realized. "You're… you're leaving? But why?"

Vaeraleah shook her head in disappointment. "Let us say that not every society is perfect, young Prince Tommen. Our devotees—including some of our own fellow priests—are like herd of cattle in need of a shepherd, in need for one to guide them as they misinterpret the Lord of Light's will or have strayed too far. I fear I must take my leave from the capital… For good this time."

"But you can't leave just yet! We need you."

"'We'? And who is 'we'? You? Your sister? That old, lecherous, self-serving cunt of a Grand Maester? The priests with their idols stuck in their old ways, unable to comprehend the much larger picture?"

Tommen stuttered.  _"My brother!"_  he wanted to say. Steadily he felt his nerves and a sense of panic beginning to rise until Jaime Lannister and Varys finally found their way into the room.

"There you are," exclaimed Jaime.

Varys entered not too far behind. "Such a dutiful lad, solely concerned for the well-being of a brother who acted as a personal guardian and father-figure to him that he'd go out of his way to desperately find a savior for one who's done so much for him," he purred.

"Tommen, we know that you're frightened. I get that. Your sister and the Queen are, but… sometimes there isn't much any of us could do to save those who we love no matter how hard we try."

He shook his head. "I don't believe that, uncle! I won't believe it! I won't! My brother is not going to die! He… he…"

"Your bond with your brother is strong, my child," Vaeraleah hushed the frantic Prince, gently lifting his chin up in her hand. "You believe the darkness has come to claim him, yet you wish to push back against what your people believe to be the inevitable by coming to me? Surely the Oathkeeper must be very important to you."

"He's my brother!" he said finally, his voice trembling. "I-I don't want him to die. Please, can't you use whatever magic you used earlier to help him? Like you said you did before when it happened the first time? Please?"

"'Magic'?" Varys scoffed. "Are we resorting to sorcery now?"

The High Priestess noticed the eunuch's suspicion. "You appear to distrust me. Or is it fate, or the power to change one's destiny? This child clearly stands before you visibly distraught with the fear of losing any more of his closest kin. There are many in this world believing the Oathkeeper is one of three who was promised. But you have heard all this before, haven't you? Do you not believe it was inevitable that Prince Tommen Baratheon would one day seek me out?"

Jaime had his guard up. "You must be a bold woman to be speaking such things. Do you have a particular talent in raising a child's hopes up? To fill their heads with ideas?"

"On the contrary, even the best of us is hit with a variable in which we'll need the assistance of others to show us the way. Take yourself for example, Ser Jaime of House Lannister, how you broke a sacred oath when you stabbed your King in the back and how you became one of the most hated man in this country in the later stage of Robert's Rebellion that gave you your moniker? And how it took someone else to truly see the value of your worth? To see you for who and what you really are deep down inside? To understand the reasons behind why you did what you did that day?"

Jaime gripped the hilt of his dagger, his eyes glued to Vaeraleah as his nostrils flared and his body shook slightly for a brief moment. How did this stranger, this  _foreigner_ … know so much about him or his actions when they have never even actually met until recently? He felt his throat tighten and surprisingly found himself unable to say anything as she turned towards Varys—taking two steps before being one step away from him.

"And what of you, Lord Varys?" she continued. "Everyone is what they are and where they are for a reason. Terrible things happen for a reason. Take what happened to you, for example, when you were a child. If not for your mutilation at the hand of a second-rate sorcerer, you wouldn't have been remaining here in this city helping the Lord's Chosen guiding the people to the promised land if not lay the foundations for one. Repeatedly bought and sold as a slave, you survived on the streets of Lys before rising to a position of power to become Master of Whisperers, the greatest spymaster in the known world." She places her hand on his arm. "Knowledge has made you powerful, yet quite dangerous as well. But there is still so much you yourself don't even know. Do you remember what you heard that night when the sorcerer tossed your parts in the fire? You heard a voice call out from the flames. Do you remember? Should I tell you what the voice said? Should I tell you the name of the one who spoke?"

Varys scrunches up his face and stares at Vaeraleah in shock and disbelief; the High Priestess smiles and redirects her focus back on Tommen. The Young Cub was quickly growing anxious and felt himself slipping into a full-mode panic attack. In that instant, he surprised all in attendance by doing the unthinkable: Tommen quickly dropped down to his hands and knees and lowered his head submissively, his body slowly started to tremble and quiver; even Vaeraleah herself was taken aback by this act.

"Please, my lady *hic*," Tommen's voice cracked in desperation, having finally lost his composure. "I don't care what happened to whom or what happened way back when, nor do I care about what happens to me. But… *hic* please, I beg of you, for the love you claim you and your God has for him, *hic* please use your magic to save my brother's life. I'll do anything; just please find it in your heart *hic* and grant me this act of kindness, even if it's just a tiny drop of it. *hic* I've already lost my— *hic* my father, my mother, my grandfather…. *hic* I-I don't want my brother to die! Please don't let death take him from us! *hic* Please… please save Daveth. Please save my brother."

Vaeraleah felt sympathy for this boy, born of royalty… throwing away proper protocol and literally begging for her help to save the life of one of the most important people in his life. Necessarily a high-ranking red priest or priestess of the R'hllor doctrine aren't permitted to use their powers as a crutch or a means to an end… only for when it was absolutely necessary in the Lord of Light's will. The High Priestess of Asshai had been observing Daveth Baratheon from an early age over the years and watched his progress unbeknownst to all present; determining that the Young Stag himself was one of three sides of the pyramid, Vaeraleah prayed in silence for the Lord's favor.

Kneeling down, she gently cupped Tommen's cheeks—bringing him to face her at eye-level. "You say your brother is dying?" she asks with a gentle tone.

Tommen sniffles and nods yes.

"And this child is your—" she asks Jaime.

"Nephew," he interrupted her rather curtly; Jaime could tell by the look in Vaeraleah's eyes that she knew the whole truth. The Kingslayer knew with every fiber of his being that by looking into Vaeraleah's eyes he knew that she knew that Tommen wasn't actually his 'nephew', but his bastard son born of incest.

The High Priestess sighed and stood. "Then take me to him."

Tommen quickly raised his head up. "Does— *hic* does that mean…?"

She nods. "You have a kind, gentle heart, Prince Tommen. Even the Lord of Light does not like seeing the pain, suffering and misfortune of the innocent. I will heal your brother, young one. It is the Lord's will."

"Oh, thank you! Thank you so much!" he wiped his eyes.

 _'Lo mērī ao gīmigon skoros se odre iksin, ābrītsos mēre. Aōha lēkia daor māzigon arlī hae keskydoso. (If only you knew what the cost was, young one. Your brother might not come back as the same)'_ , she mused in High Valyrian.  _'Tolvie jēda iā issaros iksis maghatan arlī naejot ābrar tolī istin, pōnta ojughagon mirrī hen pōja hen rūnagon se issi mirrī byka hen pōntāla. (Every time a person is revived more than once, they lose a bit of their memory and are a bit less of themselves.)'_

Gently brushing her way past Tommen, Jaime and Varys—the trio keeping a steady pace behind her, a strange yet slightly warming essence began emanating off of Vaeraleah. Whether it was the magical aura the High Priestess let off, or whatever, none of it mattered to Tommen as he recomposed himself. He felt a wave of relief washing over him as the woman had agreed to help them.

Upon entering the main room, they could see Sansa, Catelyn, Myrcella, Trystane, Tyrion, Pycelle, Ser Barristan, Shae, Septa Rosyn, Olyvar silently looking at them as they re-entered the room. Daveth still remained unresponsive; Sansa wiped her husband's forehead and was in the middle of changing his sheets. The Wolf Queen glanced up and noticed Vaeraleah.

"I remember you," she spoke.

Vaeraleah nodded. "And I you, Your Grace. Your brother-in-law here brought me in, believing I could help your beloved husband."

"I've seen her work firsthand," Tommen insisted. "She said she's done this before when Daveth was four. She can make him better!"

Sansa appeared skeptical, but somewhat hopeful. "You… you can?"

"It is why I am here."

Varys and Jaime both looked at each other and said nothing. Septa Rosyn and Grand Maester Pycelle appeared to be suspicious of this foreigner's motives as Vaeraleah approached Daveth's bedside; pulling out a fresh pair of sheers, the High Priestess snipped and clipped the Young Stag's hair and trimmed his beard until his face was freshly clean. Dipping one of her fingers in medicinal ointments, Vaeraleah traced them across every battle scar on Daveth's body before placing two palms over his torso and closed her eyes.

"Āeksiot Ōño, rȳbagon īlva sir. (Lord of Light, hear us now)", she prayed, "Bisy's prūmia iksis vok, yn ropagon ondoso pirta se ōdrikagon. Zȳhon gīs ēza issare zgiēñisi, yn zȳhon perzys ēza gone hen gō zȳhon jēda. (This one's heart is pure, but beset by doubt and strife. His spirit has been mended, but his fire has gone out before his time.)"

All in attendance watched, but were taken by surprise when her hands started to glow and a hint of light began to shine brightly from the High Priestess's palm. Everyone turned their heads slightly to keep the blinding light out of their eyes.

"Īlon epagon se āeksio naejot maghagon bisa prūmia hen sȳndror se arlī ezīmagon se ōños. Rhaenagon zȳhon perzys, oh Āeksio, se maghagon zirȳla arlī naejot skoriot se aerēptan dōrī ēdrugon, naejot skoriot se aerēptan dōrī ēdrugon, se raqnon dōrī ilimagho. Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson. (We ask the Lord to deliver this soul out of darkness and back into the light. Restore his flame, oh Lord, and bring him back to where the traveler never tires, the children never cry, the lover never mourns. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.)"

The light shined bright for a brief moment before finally vanishing. Opening her eyes once more, Vaeraleah moved her hands away and back off. She looked visibly worn out as everyone looked at her.

"What did you just do?" asked Septa Rosyn.

Vaeraleah took a few breaths. "I have done all I can for the King, just as I had done once before when this tragedy happened seventeen years ago. Something your idols did not. Now… all the rest of us can do is simply pray for the best."

Before the high-ranking Septa could respond, the High Priestess left the room but not before parting with a simple choice of words:

"I must now take my leave and round up a rather bunch of rowdy converts who tarnish our Lord's reputation before the true war begins. The night is dark and full of terrors."

Vaeraleah then left the room and apparently left the Red Keep, leaving King's Landing all while ignoring the Septs and Septons shouts and exclamations, accusing her of spreading blasphemy. All the while, Sansa returned her focus towards Daveth—who remained motionless in bed. She brushed her hand across her husband's cheek and gently pressed her forehead against his.

"Daveth…" she said in an almost quiet whisper.

* * *

**Somewhere in the dream world…**

* * *

Daveth still sat on the log in the dream world with the spirits of his late father Robert Baratheon and his late father-in-law Eddard Stark, each of them drinking out of what appeared to be flasks of wine. Even in this state, the Young Stag was still uncertain about whether or not any of this was real. Still, this moment of reprieve allowed him to reconcile with his father… or what appears to be an impersonation of him.

 _"You remember your first, Ned?"_  Robert's spirit asked.

Eddard's spirit nodded.

_"Who was it?"_

_"One of the hill tribes around the Mountains of the Moon near the Fingers, had to fight my way back to the North to call my bannermen."_

_"So how'd you get to Winterfell?"_

_"Hired a fisherman to bring me to White Harbor, though I was stuck at Sisterton for a while after a bad storm."_

Robert hummed.  _"Unforgiving elements, I know. Mine was some Tarly boy at the Battle of Summerhall. My horse took an arrow so I was on foot, slogging through the mud. He came running at me, the dumb high-born lad, thinking he could end the rebellion with a single swing of his sword. I knocked him down with the hammer. Gods, I was strong then! Caved in his breastplate. Probably shattered every rib he had. Stood over him, hammer in the air. Right before I brought it down he shouted, 'Wait! Wait',"_  he chuckled.  _"They never tell you how they all shit themselves. They don't put that part in the songs. Stupid boy,"_  he then turned to Daveth.  _"All right, boy, your turn. We're telling war stories so out with it. Who was your first kill?"_

Daveth sighed; deciding that this might be the only time he'd actually get to bond with his father.  **« One of the rioters in King's Landing during the Stag Sedition. »**  he answered.

Eddard looked at him.  _"I was there that day,"_  he reminded him.  _"Joffrey foolishly started the whole ordeal, almost got my daughter raped."_

**« And I had no intention of ever letting that happen, father-in-law. Not so long as I ruled. »**

_"How'd you do it?"_  Robert asked.

**« I shoved my sword through his throat. Only sound he made was 'BLEARGH!' »**

_"What about Balon Greyjoy? What did the kraken say when you beat him to a bloody pulp? I never asked."_

**« He said the same thing the ironborn would always say… 'What is dead may never die.' »**

_"How'd you do him in?"_

Daveth shook his head.  **« I didn't. The entire castle was in the middle of being reduced to a pile of rubble. As far as I can remember, he plummeted to the bottom of the Sunset Sea before I could finish him off. I'm not proud of how I handled myself that day nor would I like to remember it. »**

 _"Sometimes we have to learn the hard way if we're to ever learn to let go of the past instead of carrying it with us like an anchor. It takes another to show us the error of one's ways,"_  Eddard advised.  _"What you did afterwards, it's just another part of growing up."_

« I suppose it does, Lord Stark. No one's perfect. Life would be too easy if it was. »

_"Bah! What I'd do for another fight again. Seven hells, I've already learned to die a long time ago."_

_"As did I, Robert. We both grew up with soldiers."_

_"And left the young'uns to carry the bag for us."_

Daveth listened to them talk for a while, still holding the flask in his hand. As Robert took a gigantic gulp of wine, the Young Stag spoke up.  **« I forgive you, father. And I'm sorry. »**

Robert's eyes widened as he spat out the wine, coughing on the concoction. Even Eddard was slightly surprised; both stags never seemed to see eye-to-eye on anything nor did they get along well at all. What prompted this?

 _"For what?"_  Robert asked confused.

**« Growing up, I always thought you were a terrible father; a pitiful, drunken fool. But when I saw that letter the day you died, it made me… think about some things lately. Perhaps there was more to you than others let on. »**

As Robert apparently stood mouth agape in disbelief, Eddard seemed to chime in.  _"Your father was a good man at heart, despite his failings. What he did, we both knew it was wrong, it was Robert's own way of drowning his grief after my sister Lyanna died. She was originally promised to your father, but she was taken from us. It started the rebellion. Your father never got over that – even after wedding your mother."_

**« A lesson I learned only four years late. Just never took a moment to see past it all. I'm… sorry, father. »**

Robert sighed in resignation.  _"I know. And I know I was a terrible father to you. But you're doing much better at being one than I did. I mean, look at you. Two kids, a wife who loves you. You succeeded where I failed."_

Daveth seemed to smile a bit.  **« I never got the chance to thank both of you for arranging the match. Sansa's been a good wife to me, a wonderful mother to our children… and an outstanding consort to the realm. She's come a long way since Winterfell. »**

Eddard smiled.  _"We know. We've been watching you, remember? You've been taking good care of her."_

As they traded banter back and forth, Daveth felt a sense of relief wash over him; and whatever guilt or remorse he had earlier was lifted from his shoulders. Years of meditation, contemplation and self-reflection seemed to grant him a sense of closure in whatever wrongs that may have been said or done during his childhood. But just as they were in the middle of their talks, Daveth started to glow brightly.

 **« Wha… What is this? What's happening to me?! »**  he started to panic, seeing he was starting to fade away.

 _"Well, well… It seems that it's not actually your time yet,"_  Robert remarked.

**« Father? »**

_"Do not worry, Daveth,"_  Eddard reassured.  _"We'll be right here, watching you from the afterlife. Keep doing what you're doing, and remember your promise to me. Take good care of my daughter. Can you do that?"_

As Daveth faded some more, he clenched his hands tightly and shut his eyes tight. Nodding his head, he told them yes.  **« I… I will, father-in-law. I promise. I'll never forget any of you. I swear it. »**

_"Just try not to be too hard on yourself sometimes. Now go… Sansa is waiting for you; as are our grandchildren."_

Closing his eyes and raising his head up, Daveth simply faded away from the spirit world. Wherever he went, Eddard and Robert returned their focus towards the Pool of Reflection as the sun in that world quickly set in the distance.

* * *

**Back in the Red Keep…**

* * *

Night had covered King's Landing in darkness with the stars illuminating the landscape. Within the Red Keep, nearly everyone had been redirected towards their respective rooms… all with the exception of one. Queen Sansa Stark remained by Daveth's bedside, her head resting against her arms as her chest rose and fell. She was fast asleep and had not moved a muscle.

Silence had filled the room. All that broke it was a simple movement… and a quiet sound.

"*GASP!* *huff* *huff*"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there in ends another Part 2 of another chapter. Feeling the sense of closure, a demonstration of how strong a bond between the youngest and eldest siblings is, and with a little nudging (and practically begging and pleading for help motivate a stranger to help in the royal family's hour of need)… it seemed apparent that a miracle would happen. How far Tommen went to try to save Daveth, how he was willing to throw pride and titles away for someone he cares about. But what did you guys think Vaeraleah's earlier thoughts would entail in future chapters? Overall, what did you all think as we move onto to more chapters? Thoughts? Let me know.


	103. Coming Back Harder And Stronger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Young Stag returns from the dead; the Squid Lord stages a rescue attempt.

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

"*GASP!* *huff* *huff*"

Daveth shot straight up in the bed, breathing heavily as his nerves worked overtime to settle him down. The cold air stung his lungs, causing his body to shake; his eyes widened with his pupils dilating slightly before turning left and right to examine his surroundings while his mind worked to put the back pieces together so as to comprehend where he was. It took a while, but Daveth managed to steady his breathing and calmed down long enough to realize that he was in his bedroom. Was what he had seen nothing but a mere dream? Had he actually crossed over into the next world? Nothing made sense anymore.

Outside the night sky was dissipating; the darkness and stars were disappearing. Off in the distance, the sun was slowly rising – as marveled by the beautiful red and orange colors of the sunrise, certain parts famous for its warm hue.

While he shifted his position, Daveth felt something heavy on his left hand. Glancing over, the Young Stag saw his own wife Sansa sleeping beside him. Her chest rose and fell with each exhalation; her head moved slightly which brought several strands of her red hair to fall over her face.

_'Sansa? How long was she…? Was she here this whole time?'_  he guessed.

Brushing Sansa's hair out of her face with his right hand, Daveth gazed upon his wife and attempted to sit up properly but falters. His movement caused Sansa to stir in her sleep before gradually waking up. The Wolf Queen yawned and rubbed her eyes as Daveth regained his balance.

"Mmm, what is going— D-Daveth?" Sansa stared at him.

_'Then… then it did happen. I wasn't hallucinating. What in Seven hells is going on?'_  He raised a hand to touch her face, but stopped short. "Sansa—"

***SLAP!***

The Young Stag felt a sudden, yet sharp sting across his cheek. Sansa had slapped him! It didn't hurt, but the act caught him completely off-guard—possibly as it was meant to be an emotional response. Before Daveth could even get a chance to protest he was interrupted as Sansa threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck in a tight embrace which coincidentally knocked him back down onto the mattress with enough force to hit the back of his head against the bed's headboard. The sting on his face was gone, only to be replaced by a slight discomfort to his head.

"Gah!" Daveth grunted.

He then felt Sansa trembling against him, followed by something wet on his shoulder; Daveth held his wife close and massaged her back as she sniffled and squeezed tighter.

"You… you're alive! Don't you ever scare me like that again, you stupid idiot," Sansa murmured.

"Sansa, I…"

All the commotion from inside the room quickly drew the attention of nearby Kingsguard; even some of Daveth's royal councilors and family members arrived on the scene upon being woken up so early in the morning. Catelyn Stark, who had recently woken up to tend to two of her three grandchildren, was just as surprised as nearly all in attendance.

"Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle," said Tyrion quite surprised.

Varys still had a borderline freaked-out expression on his face, still distrustful of magic and, by extension, red priests. What Vaeraleah told him earlier still bothered him deeply. Olyvar Frey and Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon arrived not too far behind, still rubbing sleep out of their eyes before finally noticing what the commotion was about.

"By the Gods," Olyvar gasped.

"Brother!" both Myrcella and Tommen exclaimed with glee.

Both the Baratheon prince and princess joined their sister-in-law in embracing Daveth who, still in a state of confusion, felt his oxygen being cut off by his wife, sister and brother. As much as he appreciated his family being there for him, the Young Stag was currently feeling a much strong desire.

"I c-can't… breathe; you're… choking me," he gasped, his voice straining.

Sansa, Tommen and Myrcella all realized what Daveth was telling them and immediately removed themselves from him, allowing the Young Stag to catch his breath. Allowing steady inhales and exhales, Daveth still retained a slight bit of confusion.

"How is this possible?" implored Barristan, ushering the King into a sitting position.

The Young Stag shook his head. "I… I don't know, Ser Barristan."

"What do you remember?"

"I was… ill. Worse than I've ever felt. Couldn't breathe, and then… that's all I remember. What happened?"

Tommen approached his brother. "You were dying."

Daveth blinked. "What?" he sounded startled if not somewhat surprised.

Sansa and Catelyn were somehow not primarily focused as the twins Lyonel and Cassana were fussing rather loudly; Daveth's ears perked up at the sound and shifted his focus from Tommen to his children as his mother-in-law brought them over.

"It's all right, little ones," Catelyn hushed as she handed them over to the parents. "Your father… is awake."

Sansa took Lyonel in her arms and Daveth took Cassana, placing her on his lap.

_'Are they… getting bigger?'_  he noticed.

"Dada," Cassana patted her arms against her father's bare stomach.

Sansa smiled, an emotional sense of relief flooding her. "Yes, sweetie; Daddy's better now."

As the twins grappled at and pulled at their parents, Varys quietly cleared his throat. "Your Grace, although most of us here are still rather bewildered about recent turn of events… my little birds heard a song from both the north and the east. They bring news of recent events such as these fanatical zealot upstarts—"

"—Lord Varys," the Wolf Queen nearly chided; she was kind of upset that Daveth had just woken up and the eunuch was dropping day-to-day business back on him, until…

"—and the whereabouts of Arya Stark."

Sansa and Catelyn froze and stared at the Master of Whisperers mouths agape; in a short span of time, Varys utilized his vast network of spies to locate the missing Arya Stark at the Queen's request. Daveth, meanwhile–still comprehending Varys' words–switched from being confused to serious.

_'Much has changed in my absence, it would seem,'_  he thought. "You mentioned north and east. Care to elaborate?"

Varys appeared slightly confused as the King was. "Reports are rather conflicted, but my birds mention Queen Sansa's sister somewhere near either the Lonely Hills or the Hornwood forest. The other seems to suggest the Stark girl being somewhere across the Narrow Sea… in Braavos."

"The Lonely Hills and Hornwood forest are in the North," Sansa mentioned. "And Braavos… why there?"

"Difficult to say, Your Grace. My birds are working around the clock trying to figure out why, but until then we only have a single lead to follow."

Olyvar looked at Catelyn. "Do you think there was an attempted kidnapping?" he asked.

Catelyn was uncertain. "But who would do such a thing?"

"I think I a suspect in mind," Daveth added, ignoring the sudden stiff muscles in his shoulders; uncomfortable as he was, the Young Stag steadily stood up – still holding Cassana in his arms as Sansa stood up with Lyonel in hers.

"Easy, love," she warned.

Myrcella marched next to Daveth's right side. "You just got better, brother. Don't push yourself to—"

"I know, 'Cella. Your concerns have been noted," he complied. "Now, all we have right now are theories. One person comes to mind about Arya's spotting in the North, but we'll need someone to investigate and verify the rumors if need be—"

"While the other investigates in the east," the Baratheon princess finished.

Daveth nodded. "Grand Maester, assemble the Small Council. We have much to discuss."

"Daveth," Catelyn called out, her mouth almost dry. "Who is your suspect?"

"Ramsay Snow."

* * *

**At the Dreadfort…**

* * *

It was a cold morning in the Dreadfort; within Bolton territory, the North's weather was already changing rapidly. With the arrival of winter, snowflakes were drifting down from the skies above as the temperature dropped. For centuries, the North was always the first of the Seven Kingdoms to experience the seasonal changes. And with that, every noble house in the North scrambled to gather and preserve the harvests from the fields to feed not just themselves but also their neighbors should one northern house experience a food shortage.

Several of Lord Roose Bolton's guards stationed on the battlements occasionally rotated while on lookout to detect any potential threats to their liege lord's holding. Two were the furthest away, too distracted to see what was occurring below them. Without making a sound, an arrow shot up from below – hitting one Bolton watchman through the eye, causing him to lean forward and fall off the battlements. Before his companion could sound the alarm, another shot up and pierced his neck. Gagging and gargling on his own blood, the Bolton archer stumbled over the railing.

With the sentries disposed of, grappling hooks were thrown and gripped deep into the stone. Climbing up the walls of the Dreadfort, several cloaked figures stealthily infiltrated the castle in search of something… or someone. Once inside, one of the figures removed their hoods – revealing to be Theon Greyjoy, the redeemed Lord Reaper of Pyke, Lord of the Iron Islands-in-exile and bannerman of House Stark.

Turning to his comrades, Theon waved them over. One by one, each infiltrator removed their cloaks which bore the sigil of the direwolf sewn onto their leather armor.

"All accounted for?" Theon whispered.

One of the Stark men nodded. "Present, Lord Theon," he whispered in response.

"Are you sure about this?" another implored. "If any of Lord Bolton's men spot us, any act of hostility could lead to war."

"Please, as if House Bolton hasn't any reason to start one by Ramsay Snow tormenting Winterfell's denizens… or that same bastard 'kidnapping' Robb's sister," Theon retorted. "We've all heard the rumors. True or false, we can't simply ignore this."

A few of the nearby passages were clogged with Bolton troops: armored knights in woolen surcoats and fur cloaks, men-at-arms with spears across their shoulders, archers carrying unstrung bows and sheaves of arrows. Keeping their heads down, Theon could see half a dozen seasoned Bolton men guarding the doors of the Great Keep. Although far, the Greyjoy was close enough to listen in.

"Another bloody bath?" one complained, referring to a nearby maid carrying two pales of steaming hot water.

"She had another bath last night. How dirty can one woman get in her own bed?" another asked.

"Lord Ramsay's command."

"Get in there, then, before the water freezes."

Theon suspected they might be referring to 'Arya Stark.' That somehow made his blood boil a bit.  _'What has the bastard Ramsay been doing to her?'_  his grip on his bow tightened. "Stay low, and keep an eye out for more of them."

His men nodded and crept around the halls of the Dreadfort as quietly as possible; ignoring the passersby mentioning 'Lord Ramsay' or 'Lady Arya'. A few of the Stark men were growing incredibly angry the more they heard what was being said about their lord's sister. Turning a corner, Theon and his men passed a room where it suddenly became quite loud.

"Ah! Ah! Yes! Yes! Oh! Ah! Oh!" screamed an unidentified woman, her moaning voice filled with lust and desire.

Theon ignored the noise emanating from the room, as did the Stark men. Noticing more Bolton guards coming their way, the infiltrators crawled out onto the battlements and climb the wall again to look for another entrance from the battlements. Eventually, Theon spots a nearby Bolton man-at-arms and quietly pulls out a small battle axe. Sneaking up behind him, Theon raises his right arm—hand still gripping his weapon—and quickly brings it down onto the guard's head from behind.

***WHAAM!***

Getting his axe stuck, Theon roughly pulls out his bloodied weapon—knowing for certain that the Bolton guard is dead – only to notice a nearby servant staring at him in terror. Moving quickly before any cry for help could be exclaimed, Theon rushed over and held the sharp end of his axe at his throat.

"Arya Stark," his breath frosted the air.

"I-I don't know—"

" _Where_  is  _Arya Stark_?"

"Th-the tower o-over there!" he pointed at a large structure.

Theon glanced and noticed it, before returning his attention towards his hostage. "You tell anyone we're here or if you so much as think about going to Roose Bolton or his bastard son Ramsay Snow, I'll come back to finish the job; for we do not sow."

Pushing the servant away, Theon watched him scurry off before he and his men turned towards the tower. The Greyjoy felt the cold air fill his lungs, ignoring the increasingly dropping temperature and snow descending upon him. Word of suspicious activities at the Dreadfort was too great to ignore; surely Theon knew that Robb Stark had been harboring nearly similar suspicions too. If he had indeed made mistakes, he would atone for them. But if not, then more chaos was sure to follow.

Theon knew the risks of this operation. He fought on the battlefield with Robb during the Stag Sedition against the traitor Renly Baratheon, he fought at the Battle of Blackwater Bay. Good training in his youth, more so when he actually got a taste for actual combat. The Starks were more a family to him than any of Balon Greyjoy's loins, more kind and tender to him compared to the beatings his brothers used to give him back on Pyke. This would be an act of returning kindness to the family that raised him even though he was technically considered a ward/hostage.

Climbing nearby steps, Theon and his men approached a nearby door to where he assumed would be to 'Arya Stark.' Leaning against the wooden door, Theon heard a quiet sound.

"*sniffle!* *sob!*"

Realizing that those were cries of anguish, misery and sorrow, Theon instinctively pushed the door open and entered the room—where the scene before him would shock him. Laying on a pile of wolfskin furs on her bed in the darkest corner curled up into a ball, the young woman bore ugly purple bruises across her pale skin. Theon wanted to believe he had found Arya Stark, but something wasn't right; she was too tall and timid, nothing like the Arya he knew growing up.

"Lady Arya?" one of the Stark men called out.

_'No, this isn't Arya Stark,'_  Theon thought.

Slowly, she turned her head. Theon looked closely at her face, noticing her dark, perhaps too dark eyes shining with tears, dark hair and pretty white teeth. She was skinny and had a small bosom, even if there were bite marks, scratches and bruises covering her body with the exception of her face.

"Jeyne?" he realized. "Jeyne Poole?"

The Stark men looked at each other before they realized the duplicity.

"The-Theon?" her voice ached. "Is that you?"

Theon approached her; Jeyne, however, stiffened involuntarily and pulled her wolfskins up to her chin.

"By the Drowned God," he gasped quietly when he noticed signs of her abuse, "what did he do to you, Jeyne?"

"No. This is some trick. It's him, it's my… my lord, my sweet lord, he sent you, this is just some test to make sure that I love him. I do, I do, I love him more than anything." She whimpered, a tear ran down her cheek. "Tell him, you tell him. I'll do what he wants… whatever he wants… with him or… or with the dog or… please… he doesn't need to cut my feet off, I won't try to run away, not ever, I'll give him sons, I swear it, I swear it…"

One of the Stark men cursed. "Gods curse that bastard."

"Someone's bound to hear her. She's making too noise," another objected. "Lord Theon, we have to get back to Winterfell and hurry. Now."

Theon noticed, but stayed a bit longer. "Jeyne, look at me," he told her. "You know me. It's me, Theon Greyjoy, remember? I know you too. I know your name."

"My… my name?" she shook her head. "My name… it's…"

He put a finger to her lips. "Your name is Jeyne Poole, one of Vayon Poole's five daughters. Your father was the steward of Winterfell. Your best friend is—"

"—Sansa Stark," Jeyne said, her lip trembled.

He nodded. "Yes. We can talk more later, but you need to be quiet now," he extended a hand to her. "Come with us, Jeyne. With me. We're taking you home. Away from  _him_."

Jeyne's eyes widened. "Please," she whispered. "Oh, please."

Theon slipped his hand through hers as he drew the girl to her feet. The wolfskins fell away from her. Underneath them Jeyne was naked, her small pale breasts covered with teeth marks. He ripped off one of his wool cloaks and wrapped it around Jeyne, to cover herself and keep her warm against the bitter cold. One of the Stark men gave her a quilted doublet and a well-worn pair of breeches.

"Now we are going out and down the steps," Theon told the girl. "Keep your head down and your hood up. Don't run, don't cry, don't speak, don't look anyone in the eye."

"Stay close to me," Jeyne said. "Please don't leave me."

"I'm not leaving you," he promised as they quickly exited the bedchamber.

For a moment Theon felt almost giddy. None of the Bolton men ever looked their way, they never saw. But on the steps the fear returned. By now, the Dreadfort was filling up with more troops. The rescue party knew that they had to escape from the castle and return to Winterfell as quickly as possible. But the guards inside huddled with spears and swords to their chest with their backs turned against the icy wind and blown snow; nearly every gate was closed and barred and the battlements growing more thick with sentries.

"It's cold," Jeyne whimpered as she stumbled along at Theon's side.

And soon to be colder; beyond the Dreadfort, winter was waiting with its icy teeth.

"This way," one of the Stark men said.

The passage twisted to the left. There before them, behind a veil of falling snow, flanked by a pair of guards. Dogs below began barking loudly, startling Theon, Jeyne and the Stark men. Bolton troops began scouring around the Dreadfort, alarmed by something. Each of the Stark men took defensive positions in front of Theon and Jeyne.

"He's coming," she whimpered. "Oh gods, he's coming. He's coming, he's coming, he's coming, he's coming."

Theon clapped one hand around Jeyne's mouth, grabbed her around the waist with the other and pulled her farther away. Just as Jeyne feared, approaching them with 20 armed men was Ramsay Snow, shirtless and had bloody scratches on him, grinning wickedly from ear to ear.

"Well well, what do we have here?" Ramsay's voice was drenched in sadistic fondness. "This is turning into a lovely evening. Trying to escape from your lawful husband are we, Lady Arya Stark? You know what happens when you bore me or anger me, right?"

Jeyne clenched Theon closely, who gripped his axe tightly. Although the Stark men knew they were outnumbered, each formed a defensive formation around the two.

"Go, Lord Theon. You too, Jeyne," one said.

"We'll hold them off. Get back to Winterfell, and hurry."

Ramsay grinned as he unsheathed two very sharp daggers from his waistband. "Oh no, I don't think any of you intruders are going anywhere with  _my_  rightful prize."

On que, Ramsay charges and the Stark and Bolton men engage in battle. The dogs bark and snarl in their targets. Ramsay fights effectively with his daggers. Jeyne Poole let out a shrill, high scream as Bolton and Stark men stumbled backwards, blades driving point through flesh and bone and spilling blood across the battlements.

"Intruders!" one of the Bolton sentries shouted.

"Guards! To the battlements! Kill the intruders!"

Far to the north of the Dreadfort, a warhorn blared loudly. Theon and Jeyne both were left with no choice but to leave, listening to the shouts, screams and cries as the Stark men were gradually being overrun. More Bolton troops would be en route to their location. Sprinting to their known location, Theon was taken aback to realize the hooks and grappling rope used to climb the walls of the Dreadfort was thrown off by the cold, strong wind gusts. It was a very long drop to the bottom.

Theon gulped, knowing full-well that the longer they stayed the more the realization they would either be likely captured or killed would grow. Shouts rang from their left. Theon knew that his men were likely dead.

_'If they take us alive, they'll take us to Ramsay,'_  he thought. Gripping Jeyne's hand in his, Theon looked at her. "We have to jump."

Jeyne's eyes widened as she looked down at the ground. "But-but it's too far!" she panicked.

"We can't let those men catch us," he countered. "If they do, we're dead! We don't have a choice. Come on, Jeyne! We have to go! Now!"

She trembled in fear, but shakenly gripped Theon's hands tightly as if her life depended on it. The Greyjoy gripped Jeyne's hand with one, and held her waist with the other. Locking eyes with her, Theon inhaled sharply and held his breath.

"One, two… three! Jump!" he yelled.

In a do-or-die moment, both Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne Poole jumped off the battlements of the Dreadfort and plummeted straight to the bottom. The only thing running through their minds was that there was enough snow on the ground to cushion their inevitable impact… and if they were to die, then it would all be over soon. Quick and painless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter done; King Daveth Baratheon is back from the dead, ready to jump into the fray once more. And Lord Theon Greyjoy makes a daring rescue attempt at the Dreadfort with only a few men. The scenario has been set for an inevitable conflict in the North with House Stark and House Bolton, whether planned by a lord or not. Think Theon made progress in his development on his own? But what of Sansa Stark's initial reaction when Daveth woke up? Too much or was it just natural? I'll let you decide that on your own. Thoughts? Let me know.


	104. The Queen of Winter Takes Charge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *WARNING*: The following content may not be appropriate for certain persons under the age of 18 (depending on the legal age requirements in countries outside the United States) and may contain NSFW material such strong language, nudity, profanity and/or sexual themes that some viewers may find offensive. If you are under 18, do not view such content. Viewer discretion is advised.
> 
> If you are 18 and up, enjoy!

 

**In King's Landing…**

* * *

Back within the Small Council chambers, Daveth invited his wife Sansa and mother-in-law Catelyn Stark to take part in today's sessions. Earlier, both the King and Queen had a back-and-forth spat that took place not long after the Young Stag woke up from the realm of the dead; to say that Sansa quite upset at Daveth throwing himself back into the fray so soon would be an understatement.

"So you believe this bastard son of Roose Bolton is up to something?" asked Trystane Martell, the new Master of Laws.

"Don't you think it would be best to recommend a committee to ascertain whether the charges might be true or false, Your Grace?" advised Grand Maester Pycelle.

Daveth was having none of it. "The more time we waste here, the more trouble will start brewing.  _Unnecessary_  trouble, I might add. Hasn't the assassination attempt on my life in Dorne provided enough of a lead to follow? Is it not worth investigating?"

"What other options do we have if this council doesn't follow up on it?" inquired Catelyn. "If we act too rashly, we risk stirring a hornet's nest. If we act too late, whoever this Ramsay Snow fellow is up to, then the North faces the risk of internal insurrection."

"Let's not forget that the capital is also facing problems of its own, Lady Stark," Randyll Tarly, Master of Ships, reminded his colleagues. "These fanatics calling themselves Sparrows have already started making their move. If we divert resources to aid the North, then we risk leaving our rear flank exposed and vulnerable to attack."

"Then that means while someone handles the problems with the North, the other will have to tangle with the Sparrows," theorized Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the King.

Sansa furrowed her eyebrows looking downwards with her thumb and index finger resting on her chin. "All while finding who we're looking for in the east, I agree," she said. "I'll go investigate the northern anomaly, whilst the rest of the council checks eastward."

In a near simultaneous fashion, almost everyone in attendance looked at the Queen of Winter with such astonishment at the unexpected announcement; normally no one would have cared if someone else was dispatched to the North as a royal envoy, but the way Sansa Stark demonstrated such bold yet determined affirmative action showed how the Wolf Queen developed nerves of iron—showing more signs of courage and bravery. But even so, Sansa remained a benevolent, popular Queen. And there were some who knew she wanted to help her immediate family members, but there remained older, conservative elements standing firm in their opinion to keep Sansa in the capital.

"Sansa!" her mother exclaimed.

"A bold statement, Your Grace, but I'm afraid that we must disagree," Mace Tyrell, Master of Coin, interjected. "What if something were to happen to you up there? Who knows what kind of horrors await up there—"

"Your concerns are appreciative, my lords, but I'm afraid I must disagree," she cut him off, "This isn't just a matter of political intrigue or subterfuge, it's a personal one. I was born in the North and it will always be a part of me no matter where I am. If my sister is indeed in the North, if she is in danger from this Ramsay Snow, then honor demands I do everything in my power to protect my family from any who would harm them – regardless of my own wants."

 _'Try and protest all you like, but you'll get nowhere trying to convince a Stark to sit on the sidelines while they're loved ones are under threat,'_  Tyrion looked amused.

"Your Grace!" Pycelle protested again.

Sansa looked to Daveth for support. "My King, throughout our marriage I've done whatever you asked of me and have asked for nothing much in return. But I beseech you, as your wife, for the love and affection you have for me, please do me this kindness—even if it's just a small one—and permit me to take charge of searching the north for my sister."

Trystane looked back and forth as the royal councilors bickered with each other; the Martell heir apparently had much to learn as Master of Laws. But as he glanced to look at Daveth, he took notice of how he listened to each of his advisors and his wife before losing himself deep in thought.

The Young Stag placed his chin in his fist, contemplating the ups and downs of each suggestion—the difference of emotional and logical reasoning. He sighed loudly.  _'There is no justice in this world, not unless we make it. Seven hells, I sure hope you know what you're doing…'_  he cursed. "If you are certain…"

"I am."

"Then I will allow it."

"Your Grace?!" the Small Council looked bewildered.

Sansa smiled. "Thank you, love."

"On one condition."

"What's that?"

Daveth looked at Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Olyvar Frey. "That you permit a personal contingent to accompany you. A small troupe might be able to avoid attracting unwanted attention. They'll keep you safe, but should you require more aid… then we will do whatever we can."

 _'It's not much,'_  she suspected,  _'but it's a small concession. He's worried about me, I'm sure.'_  Sansa nodded. "Very well, I accept your offer."

Before more shouting matches could occur, the Small Council chamber's doors were opened—drawing the ire and attention of most in attendance. The royal steward was the first to enter.

"Pardon the interruption, my lords. Your Graces," he apologized, "but His Holiness the High Septon has been insistent on being granted an audience."

Both Daveth and Sansa raised a curious eyebrow. "Send him in," the King instructed.

With that, the High Septon—the same who officiated both the weddings of Daveth and Sansa as well as Tommen and Margaery—walked in the Small Council chambers. Both the King and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms were rather surprised at the sight of this man once he stepped in better light; his face appeared to be bloodied and bruised with a gash on his lip. He limped slightly, but had the dignity to compose himself.

"Your Graces, Grand Maester," the High Septon greeted each in attendance, "lords of the Small Council, uh…" he looked at Catelyn.

"Lady Catelyn Stark, formerly of House Tully," Tyrion introduced her, "and the Queen's mother."

"By the Gods," Sansa said looking appalled, "Your Holiness, what happened to you?"

The head of the Faith of the Seven nodded in acknowledgment, clearing his throat. "As the High Septon of the Faith of the Seven, I give voice to the will of the Gods and am their foremost servant in this world," he spat. "An insult to me is an insult to the Gods. An assault on my person is an assault on our very religion."

"You were assaulted?"

The High Septon nodded. "I was, Your Grace, yes, by those fanatics who call themselves 'Sparrows.' They humiliated me, they beat me, they left me naked and bleeding on the cobblestones. I am lucky to be alive!"

Daveth furrowed his brows.  _'So… they've made their move already,'_  he thought.

"My little birds tell me this unfortunate mishap occurred in Littlefinger's brothel," Varys mentioned. "By recent reports, you were tended to by seven prostitutes dressed as each of the Seven aspects all of whom circled around you when these fanatics barged in and… beat you horribly."

Silent gasps filled the room; Daveth and Sansa, who initially were sympathetic to the High Septon's plight, quickly frowned at the startling new controversy surrounding the capital. As the Master of Whisperers, Varys commanded the largest spy network in the known world—almost nothing got past him and the eunuch would always learn almost everything occurring at almost every location at almost any time. The shocking news dissipated any ounce of sympathy for the leader of the Faith of the Seven, to learn of his 'indulgence' at a local brothel.

"High Septon!" Sansa chastised.

Mace nodded in agreement. "High Septon, this is a rather shocking thing to hear."

Even King Daveth Baratheon, although remaining silent, simply stared at the High Septon with great disappointment. Knowing all eyes were locked solely on him—feeling himself being made a target—the High Septon tried shifting the argument away from him.

"I tend to both the highest born and the lowliest amongst us. Even prostitutes may earn the mercy of the Mother."

"So you were administering to the needs of these devout prostitutes?" Trystane inquired.

"A man's private affairs ought to stay private!" Pycelle complained.

Finally having enough of the argument, Daveth raised his hand—demanding silence. "What do you want from us, High Septon?" he pressed.

"Justice!" he answered. "I ask that you protect our Faith by arresting these criminals and throwing them in the black cells. I ask that you execute their leader, this so-called High Sparrow. He's a threat to everything we hold sacred. If he goes unpunished—"

"The Sparrows will be dealt with accordingly," the Young Stag interrupted. "Until the matter is settled, it would be for the best if you were to remain in the Red Keep under the crown's protection instead of the Great Sept of Baelor. They'd be less likely to go after you here than out on the streets," He glanced at a nearby gold cloak. "Commander Duran."

A grizzled, middle-aged veteran of the City Watch in King's Landing with more than 25 years of experience in law enforcement, Duran Stonetree was a respected official who was appointed to replace Ser Bronn as Commander of the City Watch upon the sellsword's arranged marriage to Lady Raina Fishport of Summerhall. Since assuming command of the City Watch, Duran proved to be a tough but fair and effective leader—reforming the gold cloaks, routing out corrupt officers within its ranks, strengthening public safety and maintaining order in the streets.

"Yes, Your Grace?" he stated.

"Have the gold cloaks begin rounding up any possible suspects involved with attacking the High Septon and bring them in for questioning. Be sure to have them track down this High Sparrow as well and report your findings to the Master of Laws…  _and_  me."

Duran nodded. "At once, Your Grace," he said gruffly before turning around and leaving the room with several of his men.

For a moment, the High Septon appeared to be relieved that justice will soon be meted out, but his face soon changed expression when he noticed Daveth glanced in his direction.

"In the meantime," he continued, "Trystane, send a missive to the Most Devout. I imagine the pious clergymen will  _not_  be pleased when they hear of His Holiness's… activities. The crown is disappointed with you, High Septon."

"B-but, Your Grace," he stammered nervously, "I-I officiated your wedding! I officiated your brother's wedding—"

"The Sparrow's sins do not pardon your own. I believed you were a good man when I selected you to the office after your predecessor was killed in the riots, Your Holiness, but it seems my trust was misplaced. The Most Devout will decide what becomes of you. This meeting of the Small Council is hereby adjourned. Dismissed."

* * *

**—Later that night—**

* * *

It was a very long day before the sun started setting. Council sessions, startling revelations surrounding the embattled High Septon… all in all, it gave Daveth quite a big headache. He and his wife returned to their bedroom, laying out everything they need for tomorrow. Sansa was set to take a ship to White Harbor with her personal guard first thing in the morning, knowing from Shae that her handmaiden and mother Catelyn will be taking care of her son and daughter while she herself was away.

While Sansa was brushing out her hair—donned in her white nightgown, Daveth discarded his shirt standing in the mirror across the room—looking at his reflection, more distinctively the scars across his body and face.

"Mother has offered to help look after the kids while this mess is being sorted out," Sansa said. "She's putting them to sleep into their cribs right now."

"I'm sure Lyonel and Cassana will enjoy spending some quality time with their grandmother these next few days. You sure you have everything you need?"

"Just about."

Daveth shook his head. "Did I do the right thing?" he asked.

Sansa set her hairbrush down and looked over her shoulder. "Are you referring to what just happened with the High Septon this morning?"

"In a way, I suppose. Religion and fanatics don't mix, but…"

"If you're asking me whether or not you should have conducted yourself in front of the Small Council better, love, then the answer yes. You were a bit harsh on him."

Daveth sighed. "Well, at least you're honest about it."

Sansa raised an eyebrow. "I get the feeling there's more on your mind," she approached him, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Talk to me, and don't tell me 'it's nothing serious'. I know you. I know when something's not right."

 _'How perspective of you,'_  he understood. Though hesitant, Daveth obeyed and sat next to his wife. "I need your counsel, Sansa. I feel lost."

"What troubles you, my husband?"

"This… is tough to explain. Nothing makes sense anymore."

"Any that stands out in particular?"

"It's… a hard topic to discuss; but I'd like to talk about what happened last night."

Sansa knew what he was referring to. "You had me very worried, Daveth, more so than usual."

"I know."

"No, I don't think you do," she replied rather firm. "Have you even considered what I was feeling that night? What it was like to feel so helpless?" her tone rose, almost yelling until her throat grew sore. "I thought you were dead you were so ill. As Septa Rosyn helped me change your sheets, wipe your face clean and treat you as you suffered deeply from pneumonia, I was watching you slowly die and… and…"

Sansa shook with anguish and frustration; what's worse is how horrible it made Daveth feel when she finally let it all out in the open. She looked as if she was about to cry—whether out of frustration or anguish—but was forcing herself to keep her eyes dry. Raising his right hand out, the Young Stag flinched for a bit when Sansa almost looked away from him – but instead chose to place his arm around her shoulder and used his left to cup her chin to turn her head so she could look at him.

Sansa's body trembled a bit. "How was I going to explain to Lyonel or Cassana that their father might not come back this time? How much they cried their eyes out, their tiny hands clutching my dress, each time calling for 'dada'," her voice finally cracked. "Blackwater Bay, the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, Dorne… whenever you left, I spent every single day waiting for you to come home—knowing full well it might not happen. When you did, it made me so happy but when you became so sick… I thought karma finally caught up to you. You might not have noticed it, but I did. Your sister did, your brother did, your uncles did. We all did! You can't keep doing this to us, Daveth, to  _our_  family. So take my advice for what you will, but I won't sit by and watch you keep doing this to yourself again."

Daveth felt blindsided as Sansa literally just emotionally laid into him without any restraint. All he could do was massage her back and hold her close, doing his best to reassure her that he won't ever leave her side. With each tremble, Sansa breathe shook a bit as she worked to calm herself down. Daveth kissed her forehead and hugged her, an act which Sansa herself reciprocated.

"No, I  _do_  know what it's like to feel helpless," he whispered. "Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, my friends at Lannisport… when they died, I blamed myself for not being able to save them. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried… it still happened regardless. I know that there are things that are just beyond our ability to predict nor control, I'm just… I'm sick and tired of it all. The nightmares, the guilt, not being able to protect the ones I care about as they slip away… Fuck, all of it. But I couldn't bring it upon myself to abandon those who still need me." Daveth reached into his pocket and pulled out the old, tattered and torn blue scarf. Sansa recognized it as she knitted it for him. "I love my wife, our son, our daughter… our  _family_. You saved me from myself and more. I love all of you so much the mere thought of losing you is just… I couldn't…"

 _'I suppose we both still have much to work and improve on. After all, we are still human,'_  Sansa thought sadly. She kissed him and held him close. "What is it you want?" she asked curiously.

"You first," Daveth countered.

The Wolf Queen allowed a small, quiet chuckle. "All right then. What I want is some peace and quiet for once with the man I love and watch our little ones grow. Your turn."

"What I want…" he paused temporarily, "what I want is a simple, quiet life. No politics, no plotting, no wars… The two of us staying together until both of us reach old age and a lot of little runts running around."

Sansa blinked for a moment. "You want… you want more children?" she asked, finally realizing what it was that Daveth wanted.

"Do you?"

"I'm not opposed to the idea, considering the fact that both of us come from large families and we've just started our own with Lyonel and Cassana without rush, of course, but… are you sure this is what you want?"

Daveth nodded, never breaking eye-contact. "Not unless if you think otherwise before heading out tomorrow morning, not without your consent," he answered. "We're still young and have plenty of time, but… family is not always about blood ties or noble houses, but rather it is a bond between those around you. The ones who want you in their life just as much as you want them in yours. It is that bond no one can ever take away."

Touched, Sansa was stunned for a bit. But before she could reply, Daveth claimed her lips with his. Sansa sighed into the kiss and reciprocated, feeling as if all their troubles were just washing away now that everything was out in the open. It was a big weight off her shoulders. Pulling away to catch their breath, Sansa gave a small nod in approval.

"If it's what you want, then… I won't deny you that request, so long as you in turn agree to promise me that you'll take better care of yourself this time."

"It won't be easy, but you have my word," Daveth promised.

Sansa nodded and wrapped her arms around Daveth's neck to pull him into a kiss—all the while he went to work squeezing her butt with one hand and sliding the other under her nightgown to fondle a breast with the other. Softly at first, then ran his thumb lightly across her nipple, back and forth and back and forth until the Young Stag felt it stiffen.

"A-aaah~" Sansa choked out a quiet moan, her cheeks blushing a pretty shade of pink.

Lifting one hand under her nightgown, Daveth lifted it over Sansa's head and discarded it to the floor—revealing her naked form to him. Eager for more, the Young Stag gently lays Sansa down onto the bed on her back and kissed his wife hungrily whilst she worked to undo the laces on his pants; finally the Wolf Queen untied the final lace to allow Daveth to remove his trousers, kicking them off when they got stuck around his ankles. By now, there was nothing but bare skin touching.

Sansa bit her lower lip to stop it from trembling, watching as she felt Daveth's mouth upon her left breast, teeth raking over the nipple tenderly, and teasing it with his tongue while he kneaded the right breast. Pleasure shot throughout her body; Sansa ran her fingers through jet black hair before reaching down her husband's body to wrap her hand around his stiff manhood, stroking up and down in a fluid motion. Within moments, Daveth was hard as a rock.

"Ah, Sansa," his face contorted, never breaking eye contact with his wife.

Sansa was a nose tip away from Daveth's. "Does that feel good?" she asked.

"Uh-huh," he confirmed. "But… how about this?"

Before Sansa could reply, she gasped as she felt Daveth's free hand sliding between her legs to stroke her womanhood in a circular motion before slipping two of his fingers in and out of her wet opening. Whenever Daveth thrusted into her hand, Sansa rocked her hips and spread her legs to give the massaging hand better access as her fluids flowed.

"Lie down for me," Sansa whispered.

Daveth obeyed his Queen's order, lying down on his back—watching as Sansa stood up still gripping his erect manhood in her hand. She continued stroking him before leaning forward and kissed the tip; Sansa giggled when it twitched in her hand, indicating Daveth was enjoying it. She gave one more stroke before swirling her tongue in a circular motion around the head before engulfing the shaft into her warm wet mouth. Hot saliva coated Daveth's manhood, the Young Stag's eyes almost rolled to the back of his head.

Sansa bobbed her head up and down, coating Daveth's erection with her saliva. Daveth's face twisted and clasped his wife's butt and gave a squeeze. The Wolf Queen yelped as she felt his hand roaming across her behind and rubbing her in small circles, prompting her to get back at her husband—continuing her fellatio, sucking harder on him until she switched to flick her tongue at the tip when she reached the apex and fondled his balls.

"S-Sansa, I-I'm going to…" Daveth groaned.

Feeling him twitch in her mouth, Sansa pulled off her husband's manhood with a wet pop, leaving a small trail of drool and saliva coating him. She wiped her mouth and gazed at Daveth, whose breathing slowly stabilized but still cupped her buttocks. He looked at his wife with hunger in his eyes.

"Come here," he commanded, his voice deepened with a husky desire.

Sansa laid down beside her husband on the bed. The cold made her shiver, but she obeyed. Her eyes were focused on Daveth, and she waited. After a moment, he positioned himself on top of her but placed both hands on her thighs and spread her legs apart. Sansa was rather surprised with Daveth's sudden act, not knowing what to expect next. The Young Stag simply gave a smug grin when he noticed how Sansa's womanhood was dripping.

"Well, well, Your Grace," he teased, "look at how wet you are."

Sansa's eyes widened and her face blushed harder at the vulgarity. "D-don't say such things like that in front of me!" she exclaimed embarrassed.

"Why not? What you did to me just now, you've done so twice. This time allow  _me_  to return the favor."

"What are you—" Sansa asked before being cut off by a new sensation. "Oh. Oooh. Ooooh~!" she closed her eyes and threw her head back against the pillow, arching her back upwards and opened her mouth in an 'o' shape filled with silent gasps.

Daveth pressed his mouth between Sansa's thighs as he tasted her. So sweet, almost like honey that he wrapped his arms around her legs and pulled her closer to him, burying his mouth in her folds. He could hear Sansa's breathing growing heavy and feel her body jolt in response to him lapping at her folds, up her labia, nipping gently at her sensitive bud.

"Oooh, Daveth, haah~" Sansa gasps and moans, raking her fingers through his hair. "Mmm, oh right there, love. Haah, haah… Oh Gods, it's so good."

The Young Stag speculated at how Sansa was egging him on like that, he must've been at least doing something right.  _'She's getting close. Well, let's see if we can push her past her breaking point. Time to sing a song for me, Sansa.'_

Daveth intensified his ravishing of her, gazing up at her from between her legs, listening to her mewling cries before extending his right hand up Sansa's body to knead the soft mounds of her breast again. Thinking now was the time to act, the Young Stag slid his middle and ring finger into her opening as he attacked her bud.

"O-Oh Gods!" Sansa gripped the bedsheets tightly, her knuckles almost turning white. Even when Daveth was performing oral on her, he was painstakingly slow about it, clamping down onto her labia until she felt his fingers massaging her G-spot inside—causing her to buck her hips slightly against him until she felt a burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. "D-Daveth, I… I'm about to… I-I can't… I can't hold it any longer…"

 _'Yes, that's it. There she is,'_  he smirked triumphantly, removing his mouth from her cunt. "Let it out, Sansa. Don't hold back. Come on," he murmured teasingly—increasing the pace of his fingers moving in and out of her.

"A-Ah, ahhh AHHHH~!" Sansa cried, her back arching off the bed as a wave of orgasm washed over her, her whole body trembled, muscles tensing up and coiling around Daveth's fingers until she gradually came down from her climax, panting heavily and covered in sweat, her cheeks flushed a deep and satisfying shade of pink.

Daveth withdrew his fingers from his wife, looking at his nectar-covered digits. He allowed Sansa a moment to catch her breath, watching her chest rise and fall. Once she was back at 100%, Sansa watched as Daveth climbed on top of her.

"Where… where did you learn to do that?" she asked.

"I didn't," he answered. "Does this please you, my Queen?"

"Mhmm."

Daveth parted a few strands of red hair out of Sansa's face and pressed his forehead to hers, taking her hands in his. "Have I told you how beautiful you are?"

Sansa nodded amusingly. "Ha-ha, you've been saying that to me for the last four years now," she heaved a breathless laugh. "You, on the other hand, are still a pervert."

Daveth looked down to realize he hadn't recognized he was pressing the tip of her manhood directly at her entrance. He settles his weight on one forearm, using his other to rub the tip of his erect tool up and down the wetness of her folds, listening to the little whimpers Sansa lets out every time he rubs her.

"I'm going to put it in now," he tells her. "Are you ready?"

Sansa nods yes and wraps her arms around her husband's neck, glancing downwards to see Daveth sheathing his manhood inside her, ever so slowly until he buried himself deep within her. Sansa groaned and dragged her fingernails across Daveth's back, feeling so full by her husband again as her hot inner wall muscles wrapped tightly around him. The Young Stag groaned as well and buried his face into the side of Sansa's neck, nipping at the nape and collarbone before moving his hips against hers.

Daveth gripped Sansa's hips and pounded into her cunt; the sound of their skin slapping came with each thrust. Sansa huffed and panted, her eyes are closed and her mouth opened in a silent cry. Both husband and wife gazed down to where their bodies were joined watching Daveth's manhood slide in and out.

"Uhh, nngh, aah~" she moaned. "So deep… Harder, harder. Oh Gods!"

Daveth held Sansa close as he complied with her demands, rolling around in bed with her until she found herself on top of him. During the lovemaking, however, Sansa felt Daveth slide out of her. Growing impatient, Sansa steadily lifted herself up and gripped his manhood and directed it at her entrance before lowering herself down onto it, completely engulfing the shaft all the way to the base. He was back inside her; Sansa shivered and placed her hands on Daveth's chest to steady herself as he grasped her hips.

"Ah… Sansa…" He groaned.

With that, Sansa moved her hips up and then back down. The sounds of their skin smacking against each other echoed throughout the bedroom. Sansa leaned her head back as Daveth ogled her beasts, which bounced up and down as she rode him. Her eyes were closed so she could concentrate not only on her movements, but also to allow herself the experience of feeling of pleasure with the man she loved when she felt her husband's manhood poking at her sensitive parts which sent another tingling sensation throughout her body.

"Mmmm, ahh~… Is-is it good for you…?" Sansa moaned.

Daveth thrusted his hips up inside Sansa, his balls slapping against her butt with each clap, clap, clap, clap as he squeezed her butt. "More than you, ahh… might think…" he replied. Soon enough, he felt himself pressure building in his loins. "Sansa, it's… it's going to happen again," he warned.

Sansa knew he was about to explode at any moment. She bit her lip and rode him faster and harder, wanting to finish with him as she too felt another orgasm approaching. "M-me too," she replied.

Daveth shut his eyes tight and gripped Sansa's hips tighter; his thrusts meeting her bouncing grew increasingly erratic. Shouting with a loud 'Ahh!', Daveth thrusted hard and shot his potent seed into Sansa, covering her walls in white. Sansa threw her head back as her walls clamped around her husband's stiff manhood and gave into her release as well. She could feel his hot seed inside traveling up and into her womb with each spurt. Rope after rope, Daveth pumped up into his wife.

Sansa shook and shuddered before she finally collapsed onto Daveth's chest from another orgasm of the night, before rolling off of him and laid flat onto her stomach. Sansa's breathing shook as she felt Daveth's seed leaking out of her, her arms trembled and her legs felt weak.

"D-Daveth, that was… amazing…" she panted. Silence filled the room until the Wolf Queen felt something behind her. Sansa shot her head up and looked behind over her shoulder to see Daveth gripping her waist with his left hand and raised her butt up to face him and guided his still erect manhood at her opening with his right, rubbing the tip against her walls. "Wha… A-again?" she exclaimed surprised.

Daveth didn't answer—all thought was gone from his mind—and easily slid his manhood back into Sansa's filled cunt. Sansa shuddered at him entering her again, finding herself on her hands and knees as he pounded into her from behind like a dog mounting a bitch in heat. Daveth pulled back slowly and then pushed back fast and hard inside her. Sansa gripped her bedsheets and pressed her face into the pillow, the sound of her groans were muffled by the cushion as Daveth continued the same pattern; withdrawing slowly and going back in.

The two continued their second act of lovemaking of the night doggy style for a while. Their pants, moans and sounds of Daveth's hips slapping Sansa's butt were the only sloppy sounds of their union that they could hear. Daveth was doing everything he possible could to give Sansa the best sex, but even he tried his best not to hurt her in the process. Even his consciousness remained intact and knew Sansa would just warn him if she was ever uncomfortable.

Sansa bit down onto the pillow the moment she felt Daveth hitting her cervix before wave after wave of orgasms washed over her. Eventually, she was nearing her limit again and expected her husband to finish and possibly reach his one last time of the night. Sansa gasped when Daveth reached around and grabbed her breasts, massaging and rubbing them while still pounding as deep as he could possibly go.

Again, Daveth was nearing his limits again. "I'm almost there, Sansa," he whispered into her ear, "I'm almost there."

"F-finish inside me, love. Hurry; please," she pleaded, the only response she could muster. Sansa was getting tired and had already reached her limit.

The Young Stag held his wife tighter and concentrated on nothing except his release. Eventually, he felt himself twitch and spill more of his seed inside Sansa, filling her up even more.

"Fuuuuuuck!" Daveth groaned, spurting another load into the woman below him—more powerful and stronger than the first. His thrusts steadily subsided with each spurt as the two of them stayed still, except for a twitch here and there. One more thrust and Daveth completely emptied out all he had for the day before slowly withdrawing his manhood from Sansa, watching as some of his seed leaked out of her entrance.

Both collapsed on the bed, panting heavily and worn out by the intimate lovemaking. Now that they were both completely exhausted, their minds were coming back and it didn't take long for Sansa to stare at Daveth despite her body trembling and shaking.

"Wa… *huff* warn me ahead *huff* of time the," she panted in a scolding manner, "…the next time you… *huff* do a stunt like that again *huff*."

Daveth's arm shook as he rubbed the back of his head and held her close. "S-sorry," he panted apologetically. "G-guess I got *huff*… got carried away… *huff*"

"I… *huff* I forgive you… Just don't… *huff* just don't do that again."

Pulling the bed sheets over them to keep them warm from the cold of night, Daveth held his wife close, planting his chin atop of her head. Sansa knew something still bothered him and looked up at his blue eyes.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

Daveth looked down worriedly at her. "Just promise me you'll be careful out there," he whispered almost pleadingly. "If anything were to ever happen to you, I…"

Sansa cupped his cheek, rubbing her thumb across his stubble. "You aren't going to lose me," she reassured him.

He seemed to relax a bit. "I believe you," hugging her. "I love you, Sansa."

"I love you too, Daveth."

Once the candles were blown out, the two went to sleep—somewhat dreading for the inevitable separation first thing tomorrow morning. For Daveth, he had just woken up from being dead for the second time only to return where his world would seemingly fall out from underneath him. Deep down, the Young Stag simply wanted answers and a possible end to the nightmares of unknown possibilities that would plague him.

He just simply closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment's peace, even if it was brief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, who would have guessed that after so many chapters Sansa Stark would finally explode and vent all her frustrations to Daveth like that. Turns out the Young Stag wasn't the only one who's been feeling so stressed out to the point where she couldn't just keep it suppressed any more. The wolf in her had bubbled to the surface, and Sansa had seemingly taken personal charge. Sansa would be off on her own to investigate events going on in the North while Daveth and the others deal with the Sparrows in the capital city while Varys looks eastwards in Essos.
> 
> Also, keep in mind next chapter will be the conclusion of Season 5 before we finally move on to Season 6. What do you guys think? Let me know.


	105. For the Watch

**At the Wall…**

* * *

Heavy snow and wind blew across Castle Black and lands beyond the Wall. Approaching the entrance to Castle Black, Lord Commander Jon Snow and Mance Rayder both accompany the 17,000 survivors of the Hardhome massacre—the last of the Free Folk; with them are Chieftain Tormund Giantsbane, Eddison Tollett, Grenn and the sole remaining giant Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun. Both Night's Watch and wildling alike, both sides retained the horrific nightmares of the Night King's army slaughtering tens of thousands of wildlings before they were raised as wights during the evacuation.

Standing atop the Wall, Ser Alliser Thorne and Lord Stannis Baratheon look down at the group. The new First Ranger curled his lip in a tense moment before…

"Open the gates," he ordered, sounding rather hesitant.

The lower gate is lifted, allowing the wildlings to pass through Castle Black itself, including many women and children. Jon knew this act would bitterly divide the Night's Watch; and rightly so. As Mance and Tormund led the survivors, the former King-Beyond-the-Wall noticed many men of the Night's Watch glaring at them.

"Once a crow, always a crow," he uttered as Mance finished leading the last of his people.

Jon glanced at them and was aware of the looks he was receiving. "It was a failure," he lamented.

"No. No, it wasn't. You did all you could," Samwell reassured. "Every one of them is alive because of you, and no one else."

"We've all seen what went down at Hardhome, Jon," Grenn mentioned. "This is no longer about keeping the wildlings out; this is about the inevitable fight between the living and the fuckin' dead."

"The White Walkers are real… and they're back, but in much greater numbers," Eddison said. "If we're to ever make it through this, the Seven Kingdoms needs to know about this."

"But will they even listen? The first Lord Commander in history to sacrifice the lives of sworn brothers to save the lives of wildlings."

Many men of the Night's Watch continued glaring at Jon, then Olly who directed a long, cold look at the young man who took him into his care when the Thenns slaughtered everyone in the Gift, including his entire family in front of him at his village. Ser Alliser walks down the steps towards Jon.

"You have a good heart, Jon Snow," he told him. "It will get us all killed."

"I've made my decision, First Ranger," Jon replied. "All that's left is learning to cope with it… and prepare for the winter. It may last several years."

"Our esteemed guest, Lord Stannis… has to be notified that we don't have enough food or space to keep everyone here tended to. He'll have to leave back to the south eventually."

"I'm well aware of that."

Stannis retained his deep scowl, possibly overhearing the conversation. Behind him in one of the buildings his daughter Shireen was teaching a wildling girl Gilly how to read and write. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he knew it was decent.

"Snake… S! It's an S!" he heard Gilly exclaim.

Shireen nodded. "Right, very good!"

"I know 'S'."

"You'll learn, I promise. I taught Ser Davos, and old people are terrible at learning new things."

Stannis paid no mind until his wife Selyse interrupted the lesson, scolding her daughter of such action and gloating that her father conquered Gilly's "people" and that as a wildling she is still dangerous. Shireen attempted to defend Gilly, but Selyse again scolds Shireen for being naïve despite all her reading of books. As he listened, Stannis made his way into the Lord Commander's office to where he saw Jon and Samwell engaged in a deep conversation with their friends.

"Not nearly as many didn't make it out, neither did Skillan or Tom Dunn either. Then the Night King raised his hands," he said. "And they all stood up at once, tens of thousands of them; the largest army the world has ever seen in all of history."

"How do you even prepare for something like this?" Grenn mused.

"White Walkers have been gone for 8,000 years… or so the rest of us thought," Eddison said. "All the rest of the southern lords sit comfortably enjoying the warm summers, then act like these undead bastards are nothing but myths and stories used to scare their kids to sleep at night."

Samwell was the first to notice Stannis. "Ah, welcome, my lord."

Jon, Grenn and Eddison all stand up.

"You're Samwell Tarly?" Stannis asks.

"I am, my lord," he nods.

The Lord of Dragonstone eyes him up and down. "Your father is Randyll Tarly. He defeated my brother at the Battle of Ashford. Only battle Robert ever lost. I told him he shouldn't go so far west so soon, but he never listened – nor did his son. Fine soldier, your father," he explained. "You, on the other hand, don't look like a soldier. But I was just informed that both you and the Lord Commander each killed a White Walker."

Samwell looked at Jon before looking back to Stannis. "We did, my lord."

"How did you do it?"

"Near the Nightfort west of Castle Black with a dagger made of dragonglass."

"Dragonglass?"

"It's what the masters call obsidian—"

Stannis cut him off. "I know what is it. We have it in Dragonstone. Why would obsidian kill a Walker?" he pressed.

"I don't know," Samwell admitted. "I've been going through all the old manuscripts hoping to find something, and all I've learned is that the children of the forest used to hunt with dragonglass."

He then turned to Jon. "And you?"

Jon Snow sighed, still visibly haunted with the memories. "Valyrian steel," he presented Longclaw, "at Hardhome. Any other blade immediately freezes to the point it shatters upon contact. I saw them shatter steel axes like they were glass, but Longclaw…"

"Is made of Valyrian steel," said Samwell, excited by the implications. "I found an account of the Long Night that spoke of a hero killing Walkers with a blade of 'dragonsteel'. How many Valyrian steel swords are left in the Seven Kingdoms?"

"Not enough."

They drink their ale, contemplating this grim truth.

"Hmm. The Lady Melisandre told me that death marches on the Wall."

"How did—" Grenn tried to ask.

"She knows many thing, how is irrelevant."

"We've seen it. The Army of the Dead," Eddison chimed in. "And when they come—"

"We have to know how to fight them," Stannis concluded. "Before I leave for Dragonstone by midday tomorrow, what is the next course of action for Night's Watch?"

"I'm gonna hope they don't learn how to climb the Wall," Jon retorted, almost as if humorously.

Stannis, however, was not amused. "Does that amuse you?" he frowned.

"What about the dragonglass?" Samwell inquired.

"If you're requesting a mountain's worth of it, I can deliver your warnings to King's Landing on behalf of the Night's Watch. In return, I'll have some of my men start mining as much dragonglass and have them delivered before the entire Seven Kingdoms readies itself for war again when Daenerys Targaryen turns her sights towards us."

"Thank you, Lord Stannis. It would mean a lot to us."

Jon, Samwell, Eddison and Grenn each lowered their heads as Stannis Baratheon left the room, leaving the four of them alone again. Once by themselves, Jon noticed Samwell twiddling his fingers and looking as if he wanted to ask him something.

"What is it?" Jon asked.

"I wanted to ask you something. To ask something of you," Samwell begun. "Send me, Gilly, and the baby to Oldtown so I can become a Maester. That's what I'm meant to be, not this."

Jon, Eddison and Grenn all raised their eyebrows; Maester Aemon had long since passed away due to old age of 104 peacefully in his bed while Jon and Mance led the rescue mission to Hardhome. Aemon's age had finally caught up with him and he steadily grew increasingly weaker, having had to be tended to by Gilly and Samwell as his mind started wandering. When he died, it was Samwell who gave Aemon a eulogy before cremating his body on a funeral pyre. Since then, Castle Black had gone without a sworn Maester—leaving the position vacant.

**ooOoo**

> _"His name was Aemon Targaryen. He came to us from King's Landing,"_  Samwell eulogized. _"A Maester of the Citadel, chained and sworn, and sworn brother of the Night's Watch, ever faithful. No man was wiser, or gentler or kinder. At the Wall, a dozen Lord Commanders came and went during his years of service, but he was always there to counsel them. He was the blood of the Dragon... but now his fire has gone out. And now his Watch is ended._ _"_
> 
> As the fires lit the pyre, Alliser leans close to Samwell.  _"You're losing all your friends, Tarly,"_  he whispered mockingly.

**ooOoo**

"Do you even hear yourself, Sam?" Grenn exclaimed.

"We need you here, Sam," Jon agreed. "If you leave, who's left to give us advice we trust?"

"I'll be of more use to you as a Maester," Samwell insisted. "More use to everyone now that Maester Aemon's gone. The Citadel has the world's greatest library. I'll learn about history, strategy, healing, and other things; things that will help when they come. If Gilly stays here then she'll die. And the baby that she named after me will die. And I'll end up dying, too, trying to protect them; which means that the last thing that I'll see in this world will be the look in her eyes when I fail them. I'd rather see a thousand White Walkers than see that."

Jon thinks about it, and nods. Maybe Sam's love story isn't doomed, unlike Jon's own. Maybe he can still save someone. The Lord Commander sighs. "All right, Sam."

"Thank you."

"You know that the Citadel will make you swear off woman too, you know?"

"They'll bloody try."

Jon senses something in Samwell's voice, a certain swagger before noticing faint bruises. His face is busted, but his grin is as wide as his face.

"Sam?"

"What?"

"You've just been beaten half to death. How did you—"

Samwell cuts him off. "Very carefully," he answers.

"Well, I'm glad the end of the world is working out well for someone," Eddison joked.

It may be a joke, but Jon and Grenn could tell actually Eddison actually meant it.

"I'll come back," Samwell promises.

One que, Jon, Eddison and Grenn raised their mug. "To your return," they toast.

Samwell raises his. "To my return."

By nightfall, a cart carrying Samwell, Gilly and Little Sam pulls out of Castle Black. Jon watches from the balcony where his predecessor Jeor Mormont used to stand. At the gate Sam turns and gives Jon a final sad wave, a gesture he returns to his chambers. Sitting at his desk, with only a lit candle to brighten the room, Jon scours through raven scrolls reading each of them. Each scrolls bear the wax seals of various Northern houses: Hornwood; Karstark; Dustin; Umber; Cerwyn. One-by-one, each message bore the same meaning.

_"We hold the Night's Watch in great esteem but are facing a troubling conflict and are unable to spare any men…"_

_"War has ravaged our House and with winter now passing over us in force their descendants are needed at home…"_

_"Perhaps when winter has come and gone we shall send a few volunteers…"_

Jon sighs frustrated; despite the Night's Watch greatly increased numbers, weapons and supplies, they would not be getting any support until winter ends. He exhales and breaks open another sealed scroll, ready to expect to be refused again until Olly burst open the door unexpectedly.

"Lord Commander!" Olly shouts.

Jon looks up and sees Olly in the doorway; there's a sense of urgency in the boy's tone.

"It's one of the wildlings you brought back. He says he knows your uncle Benjen Stark. Says he's still alive."

Jon stands, stunned by this news. "You're sure he's talking about Benjen?" he asks, half-eager and half-anxious.

Olly nods. "Says he was First Ranger. Said he knows where to find him."

Jon nods and rushes towards the door; this was incredible news. Jon follows Olly out the door, down the steps and into the courtyard. Ghost remained confined in its kennels, poking its nose out and clawing at its cage. The albino direwolf was behaving rather desperate, trying to warn its master of something. Ghost sensed that something was wrong and gave multiple bark-like howls to get Jon's attention, but he was not listening.

First Ranger Ser Alliser Thorne meets Jon and accompanies him towards the far corner of the courtyard. "Man says he saw your uncle at Hardhome at the last full moon," he informs him.

"Could be lying," Jon suggests.

"Perhaps, but there are ways to find out."

Several other Night's Watch men begin huddling around something or someone in the corner. Each of them held torches. Among the men, there were high-ranking leaders of the sworn brotherhood such as First Builder Othell Yarwyck and First Steward Bowen Marsh. Jon pushed his way past them and looked at Alliser.

"Where is he?" he panted.

The First Ranger pointed in a single direction. "Over there," he answered.

Jon walks past through the group of semi-circle rangers and stops when he expected to see a wildling, realizing he saw no one but a simple sign in front of him with a single word written on it:  **"Traitor"**.

Confused and feeling something's wrong, Jon turns around to see Ser Alliser gripping a dagger in his hand. Before Jon could react, the First Ranger drove towards him and sank his blade deep into Jon's chest.

***GLURNK!***

"Ugh!" he grunted, feeling the blade driving itself deep into his flesh.  _'He stabbed me!'_  Jon realized. "Why…?" he groaned weakly.

"For the Watch," Alliser answers.

Ghost desperately bit and clawed at his confinements, barking and howling loudly at it watched helplessly as its master got attacked. The direwolf was hoping someone was nearby to hear its cry for help. Jon desperately shoved Ser Alliser away from him and tried to reach for Longclaw, but felt Yarwyck's hand gripping his wrist as he stepped forward to plunge his own knife into the Lord Commander.

***SHLUK!***

"For the Watch," the First Builder echoes.

When Yarwyck pulled his dagger out, Bowen Marsh took out his dagger and lunged at Jon—being the third person to stab him.

***GLISH!***

"For the Watch," the First Steward echoes.

Like a domino effect, each of the assembled rangers of the Night's Watch took turns stepping forward, plunging their knives deep into their Lord Commander and echoing the words "For the Watch."

***SQWELP!***

***SHUNK!***

***SHNK!***

Pain washed over Jon Snow as the last blade hit between his rib cage and nearly came close to his shoulder blade. Feeling his life's blood oozing out of his deep wounds, Jon quickly grew weaker and sank to his knees as the mutineers backed away from him. Only Olly, Jon's own steward, remained in front of him with a dagger in his hand and tears running down his face. The boy was crying.

 _'Please don't do this, Olly. Not to me… not me,'_  Jon wanted to say; unable to believe his own men had cruelly betrayed him like this. "Olly…" he pleaded for mercy, his voice was nearly as quiet as a whisper.

***PKKKHHT!***

Jon gave one final grunt, unable to feel the final dagger piercing him in the heart. The last thing he saw was Olly slamming it directly into his chest before finally collapsing face-first into the snow, his eyes still staring up at the boy who looks down at him, still crying.

"For the Watch," Olly echoes.

When Ghost howled his loudest howl, the mutineers quickly fled the scene, leaving Jon Snow to die alone on the ground, laying on the ground in a puddle of his own blood. As the light goes out of his open eyes, Jon's movements ceased as he bled out.

"*Owooooo!*" Ghost howled mournfully.

Unbeknownst to the mutineers, their actions were witnessed by three people. Standing above in a nearby balcony were Lord Stannis Baratheon, Melisandre and Ser Davos Seaworth—all of whom had witness the treasonous action firsthand. Davos visibly looked shocked, though Stannis and Melisandre stared at the scene.

"Gather my personal guard, Ser Davos," Stannis orders.

Davos went to gather his liege lord's men-at-arms without hesitation while Stannis himself calmly walked down the stairs into the courtyard to follow the traitors. Melisandre stood by herself staring at Jon's corpse—clenching the amulet around her neck in her hands. As she looked and noticed it turning glow, the red priestess knew that she was being contacted.

"Valar morghūlis," the voice said. "Emagon se kȳvana issare vēttan? (Have the preparations been made?)"

Melisandre recognized it this voice belonging to Vaeraleah, the High Priestess of Asshai. "Valar dohaeris," she answered. "Kessa. Se Āeksiot Ōño ēza dārōñe Stānīs Barāthēon, se aderī— (Yes. The Lord of Light has blessed Stannis Baratheon, and soon—)"

"Mīlīsāndre, arlī aōha ȳdra daor jiōragon īlva āeksio's kessa. (Melisandre, you have again misinterpreted our Lord's will.)" Vaeraleah telepathically chastised her. "Se rōvēgrie ērinnon given naejot īlva ondoso se Āeksiot Ōño isse se perzyssy gōntan daor urnēptre ēza daor dīnagon syt bisa vala (The great victory in the flames given to us by the Lord of Light has no place for this man.)"

For the first time, Melisandre looked as if she started to waiver at the High Priestess berating her like this. "Kostagon daor; se Āeksiot Ōño hae bisa vala. (Impossible; the Lord of Light favors this man!)"

"Tolī hāregār jēdri, ao iēdrosa gaomagon daor shifang. Se āeksio hae shifang, daor tolī olvie. Bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys, se mazemilza hāre naejot pyghagon se sȳndror - daor sepār mēre vala. Issa se āeksio's kessa bona Jōn Snōw sagon mirre glaesagon, hae īles syt Daveth Barāthēon skori ziry rēbagon aril. (After 300 years, you still do not understand. The Lord favors understanding, not fanatical obsession. The night is dark and full of terrors, and it will take three to defeat the darkness – not just one individual. It is in the Lord's will that Jon Snow be kept alive, as it was for Daveth Baratheon when he passed from this world again.)"

"'Arlī?' Skoverdi jēdi ēza se Āeksio maghatan se quptys? (Again? How many times has the Lord brought that heathen back?)"

"Lanta. (Twice)," Vaeraleah answered telepathically.

Melisandre's eyes widened. "Konir sagon kostos daor. (That's not possible)," she gasped.

"Oh, yn issa. Āeksio līrinon va bisa ābrītsos vala. Daveth Barāthēon iksis mēre hen hāre, hae iksis Jōn Snōw. Lo ao ivestragī zirȳla morghūljagon, pār ao maghagon vēdros se qrīdropēnna naejot īlva Āeksio se Daenērys Targārien. Lo ao ivestragī zirȳla morghūljagon, lo ao ivestragī iā hen zirȳ morghūljagon, pār ao maghagon qrīdropagon se vaogenka rigle naejot īlva Āeksio. (Oh, but it is. The Lord smiles on this young man. Daveth Baratheon is one of the three, as is Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen. If you let him die, if you let either of them die, then you bring shame and disgrace to our Lord.)"

Silence filled the courtyard for a brief moment.

"Issi ao iā drēje dohaerirot naejot se Āeksiot Ōño? (Are you a true servant of the Lord of Light?)"

Melisandre did not hesitate. "Nyke dohaeragon se Āeksiot pāsābare. (I serve the Lord faithfully.)"

"Pār kesā gaomagon hen zȳhon kessa. Maghagon Jōn Snōw arlī naejot ābrar. Kinvara kessa ūndegon naejot Daenērys. (Then you will carry out His will. Bring Jon Snow back to life. Kinvara will see to Daenerys.)"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings an end to Season 5; next chapter will be the beginning of Season 6 and bring us familiar faces, but a whole new conflict scenario in Westeros and Essos. We all know what happens with Jon Snow, but there were actually witnesses who've witnessed the whole thing unfold before their eyes. While Stannis goes off in pursuit, Davos bringing Stannis's guards, how was the telepathic interaction between Melisandre and Vaeraleah – seeing that Melisandre actually answers to a superior clergy of high-rank? What are your thoughts on the whole thing? Let me know.


	106. The High Sparrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Young Stag's first encounter with the High Sparrow.

**YEAR 303 AC**

**At the Royal Harbor…**

* * *

A large group of people gathered around the port of King's Landing near the Blackwater Rush, banners detailing the golden crowned stag on a black field symbolizing the House Baratheon of King's Landing. From the harbor rested a canoe whilst  _The Winter's Voyage_  floated in the distance. King Daveth I Baratheon (22) and Queen Sansa Stark (18) were saying their goodbyes as the Wolf Queen prepared for her travel to White Harbor en route to Winterfell with her personal guards—Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne, Ser Lucius Blackmyre and Ser Olyvar Frey—who were waiting for Sansa.

Daveth held Sansa's hands in his. "You be careful and stay safe out there, alright?" he asks.

"I will, love. I promise."

"Be sure you won't take any unnecessary risks, listen to Ser Lucius's advice and—"

Sansa puffed her cheeks a bit. "Daveth, you're treating me like a child," she pouts.

"Uhh…"

Behind him Tyrion and Catelyn both hid their amusements at the Wolf Queen's remark, though it reminded the Stark matriarch of her time with her deceased husband Lord Eddard Stark and their interactions in King's Landing before she left to the Crossroads Inn after such a long journey. Daveth switched from being caught off-guard to press a bit further.

" _And_  remember your courtesies in the North. That temper of yours is a dangerous thing; well, your words mostly."

_'Well, I'm glad you find this so funny,'_ Sansa rolled her eyes in amusement. " _My_  temper? Remind me: whose voice bellows so loud it can be heard all the way in the kingswood?"

Daveth shook his head. "I… don't have an answer to that," he conceded.

Scoring yet another victory, Sansa calmly turns her attention towards her mother Catelyn. "Mother, can you keep a close eye on Daveth for me?" she asks. "Gods be merciful, he can be so stubborn sometimes."

_'Dammit, they don't need to know that…!'_

Catelyn reassures her daughter. "I'll do what I can, but eventually you'll have to come back and rein him in yourself."

What came next for Sansa during her goodbyes was one of the hardest things she's ever had to do; glancing down towards Daveth's legs stood the twins Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana—now 2 years old, looking up at their mother with curious eyes and thumbs in their mouths. Both were growing as they were standing nearly 3 feet tall, their teeth were growing in and were in the middle of developing an understanding of basic motor skills, cognitive functions and other social interactions.

"Mommy?" both Lyonel and Cassana said curiously, stretching their arms outward.

Sansa's heart ached; getting down on her knees, the Wolf Queen moved to meet her children at eye-level. "Lyonel, Cassana," she addressed them in a motherly tone, "mommy's going to see uncle Robb for a while, okay? Can you two be good to daddy and grandma? Please? Can you do it for mommy?"

They looked at their mother confused; Lyonel and Cassana were still too young to understand what was really going on – but they knew certain words. They didn't say anything and moved to hug their mother, an act Sansa warmly reciprocated. As Sansa held them close, she felt her children's little arms fastening around her neck.

"Wuv you, mommy," piped up Lyonel.

"Wuv you, mommy," Cassana babbled.

Sansa felt a lump in her throat, but held her little ones close. "Mommy loves you too, little ones," she told them, her voice almost cracked. "Mommy loves you very much."

Reluctantly pulling herself away, Sansa stood back up as Lyonel and Cassana still had a hold on their mother's dress – only to be gently pulled off by their grandmother.

"Say goodbye to mommy," Catelyn asked.

Cassana wrinkled her little hands. "Bye-bye, mommy," she squeaked.

Lyonel, however, was stubborn and threw an emotional tantrum. "No! No 'weave, mommy! No 'weave, mommy!" he wailed.

Daveth picked up his son, holding him close as the boy fought tooth in nail in his father's grip as Lyonel cried tears and snot as Sansa entered onto the canoe with her guards. She took only a backwards glance—her face clearly upset at listening to her son's pleas. Before they could depart, the Young Stag felt himself beginning to act on impulse.

"Brienne of Tarth," he called out.

Brienne heard her name being called and briefly left the canoe for a bit, informing her comrades she'll be back in a moment and lowered her head in acknowledgment once she was close enough.

"Yes, Your Grace?" Brienne asked.

Daveth looked at her, one of the two female Kingsguard he's appointed, and curled his fingers around the leather grip of the sword at his waist as he approached her. He slowly slid Stormbringer free of its scabbard before sliding it back in and shows it to Brienne.

"Valyrian steel," she says admiringly.

Daveth nodded. "Mhmm. Stormbringer, given to me by my lord grandfather Tywin Lannister on my sixteenth nameday… and when I was received my knighthood. I want you to take it with you."

Brienne blinked, looking surprised. "I… Your Grace, I… I can't accept this."

"…you will use it to protect the Queen when I can't. 'Nothing's more hateful than failing to protect the one you love.' Those were your words, remember? Sansa Stark, our children… their lives are more important to me than my own or even the Iron Throne itself. Keep her safe, Brienne. Please."

The Maid of Tarth looked the Young Stag in the eyes, hinting at sense of pleading humanity from her King. When they first met, Brienne served under Daveth's uncle Renly Baratheon as a claimant of his Kingsguard after Renly chose to lay claim to the Iron Throne despite his nephew being ahead in the line of succession. After the Stag Sedition came to an end, there were many at court who demanded Brienne's execution for associating with a traitor – but Daveth instead chose to pardon her and give her a second chance by appointing her and Ariyana Dayne to his Kingsguard. Brienne still did not forget Stannis's role in Renly's death nor has she forgotten, but kept true to her vows.

After much reluctance, Brienne wrapped her hand around Stormbringer. "I will keep Her Grace safe. For her mother's sake, for her children's sake… and for yours. When we come back, I will return your sword to you," she bowed stiffly, whirled and went. Brienne traded a glance with Jaime who looked at her, each nodding and watching them ride off in the canoe, rowing each paddle through the waters of the Blackwater Rush towards  _The Winter's Voyage_.

"Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" Lyonel kept on wailing.

Unbeknownst to them, off in the distance, a secret stowaway had managed to sneak aboard  _The Winter's Voyage_  without any of the crew noticing.

Daveth watched on as  _The Winter's Voyage_  eventually began sailing away. Myrcella touched her brother's arm, knowing how hard this must've been for him to see her leaving; but both of them knew Sansa volunteered—though it wasn't easy for the royal children either. Cassana whined as she watched her mother sailing off; Lyonel's throat sounded like it was about to get hoarse with his entire tantrum.

Jaime Lannister looked at his nephew. "There's something you don't see every day," he told him. "The love Sansa has for her family, her children, I'll admit I… was a bit awed by it. You love your children. I suppose all fathers and mothers do in their own way, it's a fierceness you don't often see. They'd do anything to protect their babies. The things we do for love."

"Even if it means we get hurt ourselves sometimes. I wonder if this is what she must've felt whenever I had to go." Daveth turned to Catelyn. "Mother-in-law, could you and Myrcella my son and daughter back to the Red Keep?"

"Your Grace—"

"Don't worry. I'll catch up."

Catelyn, still not entirely convinced of her son-in-law's request, picked up her grandson Prince Lyonel who still threw tantrums while Myrcella picked up her niece Princess Cassana who silently sniffled into her aunt's shoulder as Ser Jaime accompanied his "niece" (in actuality daughter). Daveth continued staring off into the distance of the Blackwater Rush, until one of the gold cloaks pushed his way past the assembly to reach the King.

"Your Grace, we found him. We found the whereabouts of the High Sparrow," he whispers.

Daveth turned to face him. "Where?" he requested.

"Flea Bottom, Your Grace. There is… another matter, though."

"And what would that be, sergeant?"

"Your great-uncle… Ser Kevan Lannister, he's… waiting for you there."

_'Uncle Kevan?'_  Daveth was rather curious. "Lead the way, sergeant," he ordered. "Ser Barristan, Ser Jaime, I'll need you to come with me."

"Oh? In need of backup are we?"

"Perhaps, but we can't really be too sure with these Sparrows. Religion and fanaticism don't mix… for obvious reasons."

Both Kingsguard accompanied Daveth who followed the gold cloaks across the city to their prime destination. Barristan glanced over the new and improved Flea Bottom; gone was the odorous stench of shit pilling up on the streets, the muddy walkways and run-down houses and slums. The new Flea Bottom had never looked so clean and renovated with clean streets, decent homes and cobblestone streets. The gold cloak in question stopped walking and pointed the area in question, where crowded people sat in prayer in front a flight of stairs.

"Right here, Your Grace," he said.

Daveth nodded. "Good work, sergeant. Return to your post and inform your superiors."

Onlookers noticed his arrival. "Look. The King!"

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace."

"Oathkeeper."

"Long may he reign!"

_'Deeply religious people indeed,'_ Daveth ignored them, still keeping his guard up, and noticed his maternal great-uncle Ser Kevan Lannister, who was standing by the stairs, looked rather grim. "I'm afraid the situation has become… more complicated," he told him.

"What do you mean 'complicated'? How so?"

"It… would be easier for you to see for yourself."

Now Daveth felt suspicious, and approached a nearby loiterer at the bottom of some stairs. "Excuse me, but where can I find the High Sparrow?" he asked.

The man points up the stairs. "Up there, Your Grace," he answers.

Barristan briefly pulled Daveth aside. "Your Grace, I've got a bad feeling about this."

"I feel it too, Ser Barristan. Keep your eyes peeled."

Ascending the stairs, Daveth, Barristan, Jaime and Kevan noticed a crowd of people in a large room watching as many people eating at tables. The few that were standing stood in a single file line with bowls and spoons in their hands, waiting for food. In the center, Daveth sees an old man giving soup to people.

"Thank you," one resident says politely.

"Thank you ever so for the soup!" says another.

Their eyes soon turned towards Daveth, politely lowering their heads in acknowledgment as he approached the old man.

"Pardon the interruption, but I was told someone called the High Sparrow was back here. Do you know where I might find him?"

"High Sparrow? Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?" the old man chuckles as he continued preparing soup to the people next in line. "Like Lord Duckling or King Turtle."

_'Okay, that… that was actually a little funny,'_  the Young Stag thought to himself.

"So, it's meant to. We're often stuck with the names our enemies give to us, like Young Stag or Black Lion… or Oathkeeper. The notion that we are all equal in the eyes of the Seven doesn't sit well with some, so they belittle me."

Daveth blinked. "Then…  _you're_  the High Sparrow?" he asked.

"Seven blessings to you," a second woman graciously accepted the filled bowl.

"Seven blessings to you, my dear," the High Sparrow blessed before refocusing his attention to the King while preparing soup for the next person in line. "It's only a name, my child, quite an easy burden to wear; far easier than hers."

The Young Stag looked down at his feet, not seeing any footwear. "Why are you barefoot? Did something happen to your shoes?"

"Oh no, I gave them away to someone who needed them more. We all do that. It stops us from forgetting what we really are."

"That's… rather generous of you."

"Don't get me wrong, Your Grace, I have a hard enough job reminding myself of who I am as well. Oh, I tell them no one's special. And they think I'm special for telling them so. It would be comforting to believe that, wouldn't it? Did the Gods send you here to tempt me? I hope not. I had assumed you'd only come here to arrest me for that incident with the High Septon."

The High Sparrow displayed no fear, talking as serious about discussing the weather or other trivial matters.

Ser Barristan stepped forward. "Several days ago, His Holiness the High Septon was physically assaulted at one of Lord Baelish's… ahem, establishments. Seven men in ragged robes forced their way in before striking, shaming him and paraded him through the Street of Silk naked. Upon further examination, we've noticed not only a few bruises but also several lacerations across the High Septon's face, hands and genitals."

"Quite an unacceptable way to treat the chosen representative of the Gods in this world, wouldn't you say?" taunted Jaime.

The High Sparrow simply scoffed at the notion. "Hypocrisy is a boil. Lancing a boil is never pleasant, although they could have been more careful with the blade."

Daveth switched tactics. "So you admit you had a role to play in how your men behaved towards the High Septon?" he pressed.

"We are all brothers, sworn to defend the Faith against sinners and heretics and no one gives orders to the other like ordinary soldiers. We are so many even I don't know their names. I wouldn't presume to know your thoughts on the matter."

"Let's just say that the new and improved City Watch does not take kindly to vigilantism. Commander Duran is rather strict about it. I'm afraid we'll have to bring you in for further questioning."

"A polite way of telling me I'm under arrest?"

"If you come of your own volition and willingly cooperate with law enforcement  _properly_ , then yes."

The High Sparrow noticed several devotees steadily rising from their tables, each of them whispering concerns—each voicing uncertainty or quiet outrage at the traveling humble septon sending to the poor. On the other hand, such charges are rather serious and any further resistance or defiance would escalate tensions. Surprisingly, the High Sparrow presented himself with open arms in powerlessness, all whilst still smiling.

"If that is your wish, then I offer no resistance," he said.

Daveth nodded. "Good. Then this won't take long. Come with us."

The Young Stag, his two Kingsguard escorts accompanied the High Sparrow down the stairs and into City Watch custody. Although surprised, the gold cloaks acknowledged the old man was willing to cooperate with the authorities and gently escorted him to one of the nearby garrisons past Rhaenys' Hill: the City Watch's East Barracks near the Dragon Gate.

Inside the garrison, Commander Duran read the list of charges the High Septon was facing – with Daveth sitting across from him with Barristan and Jaime standing at his left and ride side. The High Sparrow sat behind a desk across from the Young Stag, who wrote down a letter stamping it with the seal of the crown.

"Willful assault of a protected person in the second degree, organizing a vigilante mob, attack against the Faith… I could go on about the charges you face," Duran explained. "You do realize that you're facing serious charges, yes?"

"I do. Our minds are holy temples to the Seven and should be kept pure. But the truth is," he chuckles, "I'm more perturbed at His Holiness's corrosive behavior eating away at the foundation of the Faith's tenants."

Daveth looks unsure, presumably having expected him to protest the charges. He did however suspected that the High Sparrow to point out the flaws of the High Septon. Even so, the Young Stag adjusted his seat and raised his fingers in front of his chest in a lowered steeple position—a simple gesture with his hands demonstrating confident attitude.

"And yet you are aware that most of your followers were armed? Whips and small knives?" he pressed.

The High Sparrow remained a confident composure as well. "Wars teach people to obey the sword, not the Gods."

"War is never pleasant. The people who come back from it are sometimes not the same as they used to be when they do. And yet it teaches us the essence of sacrifice in life, to risk our own lives with the aim of allowing the innocent to live out their lives in relative peace," Daveth disputed. "We may fail sometimes, but that doesn't mean we can't simple give up."

Jaime chimed in. "What my nephew the King means is that although tragic, war exploits the importance of exercising our free will and to keep hope and free will alive. How it essentially becomes a fabric woven into our minds."

"Hope holds the people together, to believe in ourselves in our intrinsic ability to heal from any psychological wounds we may suffer," suggested Barristan.

"An admirable goal, but yet a bloody one and leads to more suffering," the High Sparrow remarked. "The Father, the Mother, the Warrior… we all fear a great deal. The stones we use during funerals? They remind us not to fear death. We close our eyes on this world and open them in the next."

_'We could engage in a debate, trading back and forth banter all we want but I've got a job to do,'_  the Young Stag theoretically suggested a bit impatient. "How about the promise of a new tomorrow?"

"That I'm afraid that decision is up to the Gods, to be molded and shaped in whatever form they deep fit." The High Sparrow turned to Jaime. "We all are expected to seek the Gods' mercy and atone for our sins."

That statement made Jaime visibly ticked off. "What about my sins?" he approached the old man in a hostile manner.

"Ser Jaime…" Barristan called out to him.

"I broke a sacred oath and stabbed my King in the back 22 years ago," he continued. "I watched my own sister get executed for fornicating. When the gods judged her guilty, I stood by and watched. What atonement do I deserve?"

"Ser Jaime! Enough," Daveth shouted at his uncle. "Return to the Red Keep; Lord Commander, go with him. Commander Duran, give us the room."

Ser Barristan reluctantly nodded and took Jaime Lannister by the arm and removed him from the City Watch's East Barracks, intent on returning him to the White Sword Tower with Commander Duran following the two Kingsguard knights out. Once they were alone, Daveth stared at the High Sparrow.

"Why are you really here?" Daveth quietly demanded. "What do you hope to gain by simply doing whatever you please in my city? Goading my uncle in that tone? And what is the purpose of arming your followers with clubs and axes?"

The High Sparrow simply retained his smile. "If you mean to suggest that we are somehow a group closely resembling the Faith Militant, Your Grace, well, if you are a student of history you'd remember that the Faith Militant was disarmed more than two centuries ago."

"And with good reason, I might add. King Maegor the Cruel's laws prohibited the Faith from bearing arms three hundred years ago. It was King Jaeherys the Conciliator who agreed that the Iron Throne would protect and defend the Faith in exchange for them putting down their weapons. The Doctrine of Exceptionalism, it was called."

"And the last time the Faith has checked, House Baratheon does not practice incestuous marriages as House Targaryen does."

Daveth shook his head. "No we don't, though my ancestor Orys Baratheon was said to be the bastard half-brother of Aegon the Conqueror himself. That aside, though, I will have to remind you that Maegor's laws still remain intact after three centuries and the crown stands by the protect and defend the Faith from sinners and heretics… including the Sparrows, a heretical movement."

The High Sparrow remained confident, staring deep into the King's eyes. "We are all weak, my child, vain creatures. We live only by the Mother's mercy. No doubt many of our brothers will fall," he leaned closely. "But who are we, hmm? We have no names, no family. Every one of us is poor and powerless. And yet together, we can overthrow an empire."

Daveth glared back.  _'Did you literally just threaten me to my face, old man?'_  he inhaled sharply and rose from his seat. "I think we're done here. The Master of Laws will review the evidence and determine that there will indeed be a formal trial. Until then, you will remain confined to your cell and… reflect on that precious philosophy of yours. Good day."

Before he brushed past him, Daveth heard the High Sparrow give a departing remark.

"A lifetime of wealth corrupts your soul and power has left you blind to the truth, Oathkeeper. You are just one man. We… are the many."

Daveth stopped for a moment, but did not bother to reply and left the barracks to allow the gold cloaks to go back inside. For all he could tell, the High Sparrow would be imprisoned but deep down the Young Stag knew in the pit of his gut that this encounter was not over. No. Rather it was just the beginning, and it threatened to tear King's Landing apart from the inside.

"We'll see who the one left standing is, High Sparrow," he vowed. "Sooner or later, we'll see. When you play the game of thrones, you win… or you die."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are now officially in the beginning of Season 6 with a heartbreaking separation between Sansa and her children; followed by Daveth Baratheon's first encounter with the High Sparrow. Back and forth, questioning, debate… and a promise ending with a threat. This conflict is only just the beginning with the High Sparrow and his followers the Sparrows. With Ser Kevan Lannister back in the capital, can you guys care to guess as to why he might be in King's Landing? And Daveth's closing remark, see any resemblance there? Thoughts? Let me know.


	107. Arrival at White Harbor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My skin has turned to porcelain, to ivory, to steel."

**Aboard the _Winter's Voyage_ …**

* * *

It had been a 27 day (3 week, 6 day equivalent) sea voyage aboard the new royal galley  _The Winter's Voyage_ , where Queen Sansa Stark brushed her Tully auburn hair away from her face the more she felt the sea air brushing past her and felt the waves crashing against the ship. It wouldn't have been long now with White Harbor nearby, the only city and main seaport in the North – one of only five settlements in Westeros large enough to be called a city though the smallest of the five.

Sansa hated leaving her family in King's Landing behind—the loud yet faint screaming and cries of her son still rang in her mind, but she had to check on her immediate family in Winterfell first; rumors had spread about a certain "incident" regarding an individual of the name "Arya Stark". Since then, Sansa convinced herself to venture north with her personal guards Ser Lucius Blackmyre, Brienne of Tarth, Podrick Payne and Ser Olyvar Frey.

She felt nauseous, bringing a delicate hand up to cover her mouth. Sansa shook her head and shrugged at this sudden discomfort. Any further thoughts were broken by Olyvar's shouts of protests.

"Hey! No fair, that's cheating!"

Sansa turned to see Olyvar complaining at Ser Lucius over a game of cyvasse, a board game with ten pieces played on a tiled board with a screen in the middle; each of them had a different set of color combinations including ivory and onyx, ivory and jade or alabaster and onyx. The squares were each colored jade, carnelian and lapis lazuli. Overall, it was a simple strategizing game where each player had to utilize a set of tactics to win each round and the match.

And from the looks of it, the young knight was losing against the Old Bull… horribly.

"Do you always complain this much over a simple board game, boy? A knight should exercise more restraint than shouting outbursts whenever they're met with an obstacle," Lucius raised an eyebrow.

Olyvar gritted his teeth. "Just you wait, old man. I'll win this—" he noticed Sansa looking at them and looked caught off guard, nearly rising out of his seat. "Oh, Y-Your Grace! Ah, w-we were just, uhh…"

Sansa seemed genuinely interested. "Are you two playing nice?" she asked rather amused.

"Of course, Your Grace," Ser Lucius replied. "Ser Olyvar is just simply upset I won our last game."

"That was luck!" he grumbled, picking up one of the pieces on the board.

Ser Lucius analyzed the pieces on the board and when he saw an opening he seized his chance. "An accusation you've been hurling for the past three games straight. You are young, whereas this old man has more than 40 years of experience devising all sorts of military strategies and tactics since the War of the Ninepenny Kings," he explained as he moved his piece into check. "…and I'm  _good_  at this."

Aghast, Olyvar stared in dismay at the board; his fingers and nerves twitching wildly as he lost his fourth consecutive match against Ser Lucius. Pounding his hands on the small table, Olyvar simply stood up and walked away.

"That's it. I'm gonna go check to see if we're close to our destination…"

Sansa and Brienne both had to stifle a choked chuckle at Ser Olyvar's loss, hiding their amusement. Lucius simply shrugged off the youth's regular complaining at being unable to put up a decent challenge against the veteran knight.

"Well, I suppose I should be returning to my post as well…" he spoke, before gesturing to the board, "unless you would care for a game, Your Grace?"

"All right, prepare the board, Ser Lucius," Sansa boldly accepted the challenge and sat down in front of him.

With the prospect of challenging the Queen Consort to a friendly match, Ser Lucius gathered up the pieces and rearranged them on the board. "You understand the rules of cyvasse?"

"A little."

"Well, see the pieces? The 10 pieces you see here are the rabble, spearmen, crossbowmen, light horse, heavy horse, trebuchet, catapult, dragon, elephant and king. Before the game starts, neither player can see the identity of the other's pieces with the screen being placed in front of us – therefore allowing a player to position each piece into strategic positions. A dragon can remove elephants, a catapult or trebuchet can remove a dragon and the goal of the game is to take out the king."

Both began moving their pieces on the board, each moving a few of them one at a time.

"You've played this before?"

Ser Lucius nodded. "Of course; Prince Lewyn Martell would occasionally bring it with him whenever he returned from Dorne—which was all the time before we were elevated to the Kingsguard. Lewyn, Barristan and I would practice together for weeks. Ahh, the look on Lewyn's face when I beat him at his own game… Those were good times, before the rebellion."

"If you don't mind me asking, what were you before you joined the Kingsguard?"

"Me? I was just an ordinary farmer, tending to the fields and harvesting crops in the Riverlands. Good days, bad days… we had our moments like everyone else. It wasn't until I saved a particularly important lord against an attack from a group of bandits, outlaws and cutthroats."

"And who was the lord you rescued?" she asked, moving a piece.

"Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Trident," he answered, moving his own piece.

Sansa blinked in surprise. "My grandfather?"

"He was a good man, but I admit I didn't even know it was him at the time," Lucius moved another piece. "Apparently I must've made quite an impression. Lord Hoster knighted me and granted me High Heart as a thank you; called on me when Maelys the Monstrous, last of the Blackfyre pretenders, tried to invade Westeros with his army at the Stepstones."

"I heard the stories. What happened?"

"Surely you're already well-versed in history, hmm?"

"Yes, Ser Lucius, but you and Ser Barristan were actually there."

Lucius leaned back, groaning as his muscles stretched. "Well it was technically called the Fifth Blackfyre Rebellion, though the reason why people remember it as the War of the Ninepenny Kings was when Ser Duncan the Tall told a joke about the Band of Nine, a diverse group of robber-lords and pirates who proclaimed themselves kings. 'It seemed that crowns were being sold nine a penny,' he said. The name stuck. As a close relative to the Targaryens, Maelys believed his Targaryen blood gave him a claim to the Iron Throne, but we made sure his blood claimed nothing but dirt around his corpse. Your grandfather, your great-uncle Ser Brynden, Ser Barristan and I… we were there, as was Lord Tywin Lannister, his brother Ser Kevan, Lord Ormund Baratheon, his son Steffon… but so was the King's son, Aerys Targaryen. That's how Barristan and I both joined the Kingsguard."

 _'For a man of 67 years, Ser Lucius sure sounds like he has a lot of stories to tell. Perhaps I'll get him to tell me some more once this whole ordeal is over… and when this nauseating subsides,'_  the Wolf Queen thought.

"Your Grace? It's your turn."

Sansa blinked and moved her piece, contemplating her next move. "Ah, my apologies, ser; it's just the stories you tell have been rather fascinating."

Ser Lucius smiled. "Oh? Well, you're actually the first to tell me that. Most young'uns care little for what they call 'the preaching of old, unwanted men.'"

"Don't say such things!" she quietly protested. "We need people like you."

"Hah ha, easy child, I know what you meant. And thank you… for saying that and believing that."

Sansa smiled and moved another piece. "All right, Ser Lucius, let's see what you got."

"Careful now," he warned. "Too much confidence can lead to one's downfall."

The round lasted for several minutes to almost an hour. As the winds and waves crashed against  _The Winter's Voyage_ , each of the crew tended to the sails and steered the galley in the direction towards White Harbor. After an hour, the game continued and Ser Lucius glanced at the game board – realizing for the first time it was in a stalemate. Queen Sansa was actually keeping up with the Old Bull, quite competitive.

"Well, well, quite a clever move, Your Grace," he broke the silence with a small smirk, "it seems I've underestimated your resourcefulness. Are you  _sure_  you never played cyvasse before?"

Sansa smiled. "I am a slow learner, Ser Lucius, it's true. But I learn."

"So it would seem. You've definitely come a long way since Winterfell."

Before she could say anything else, Sansa felt nauseous again and covered her mouth again whilst another hand was placed onto her stomach. Both Lucius and Brienne looked at the Wolf Queen, somewhat slightly concerned. She started to look a little bit pale and tired more than usual – looking like she was about to vomit at any moment.

"Are you all right, Your Grace?" asked Brienne.

Sansa exhaled, relieved that the discomfort finally subsided. "Yes, Brienne," she replied, "I'm all right. I'll be all right."

"You're not getting seasick, are you?" Lucius suggested.

"No, no. I've been at sea a few times, but it doesn't make me uncomfortable… at least not yet anyway."

Before they could press further, Ser Olyvar returned to the deck. "We're approaching White Harbor. Best we get our stuff unpacked because we're expecting some company at the docks."

"It shouldn't be," Sansa theorized. "Surely Lord Wyman must've received a raven before our arrival."

"Well, you could tell his men that because they definitely look like they're expecting trouble."

Sansa suspected something was amiss and rose from her seat to glance over the side as  _The Winter Voyage_  began docking at White Harbor. As Olyvar warned, each of the approaching guardsmen looked a little on edge – all of them bearing leather armor with steel studs and bearing a white merman holding a trident over a blue-green field on their banners. The Wolf Queen glanced with one of the men, analyzing their posture, concluding that there was a sense of fear and uncertainty floating around in the North.

One of the guards approached the ship, spear still in hand. "Halt!" he orders. "Who goes there?"

Ser Olyvar was the first to disembark. "Ser Olyvar of House Frey," he introduced himself.

"Never seen weasel lords from the south make their way up here to our lands… unannounced."

"We've sent a raven to your lord weeks ago. You mean neither of you hadn't—"

"What raven?" he pointed his spear at him. "State your business, boy. And don't think about trying anything stupid."

Ser Lucius intervened. "Put your weapons down, boy! Before you end up hurting yourself."

"A threat? The North doesn't take kindly to threats."

Another guard approached. "That armor… You're a Kingsguard, aren't you?" he asked cautiously.

"So now you've chosen to use your eyes, did you? Yes, I'm a bloody Kingsguard; been one for over 40 years!"

"Anyone can make a suit of armor that fancy and call themselves Kingsguard. Prove it."

Brienne decided to intervene as well, with Podrick following close behind her. "Gentlemen, you're holding us up while an investigation is underway."

More guards approached looking rather unconvinced. "Investigation? What investigation?" another demanded. "Explain yourselves! Why are you on our land?"

"Another claiming to be a Kingsguard?"

"A woman? Not a fat chance!"

"Her? An ugly bitch of that size? Holy fuck, how in the…?"

"What's all the commotion here?" approached Lord Wyman Manderly, ruler of White Harbor nearly 60 years old.

A prominent and wealthy lord of a powerful Northern house, Wyman's attire consisted of rich clothing including a velvet blue-green doublet embroidered with golden threat with golden trident pinning his mantle to his shoulder despite being a heavyset yet amiable man; shrewd, calculating and intelligent. Lord Wyman was also a loyal, powerful bannerman of House Stark – commanding one of the three largest armies in the North alongside the Umbers and Karstarks.

He approached Ser Olyvar, Ser Lucius, Podrick and Brienne. "What brings you to White Harbor?" he asked.

Lucius approached. "We've come here because of rather… disturbing activities here in the North. Word travels fast, Lord Manderly, even as far to the south."

"And what are the reports you've heard?"

"One relating to the failed assassination attempt against the royal family in Dorne," Olyvar explained. "We believe our primary suspect has been pulling strings behind the scenes and plans to make his next move sooner."

Lord Wyman observed closely, but still needed some convincing as he dismounted his horse. "We've heard the rumors ourselves, though a raven being sent to me would've been appreciative."

Sansa was listening to the entire conversation unfold, shaking her head in annoyance; her thoughts turned to her sister Arya and the ongoing trouble in the North. She knew trouble was afoot, but she did not appreciate being held up or delayed over a minor inconvenience. Winter had arrived and the North was already experiencing snowfall, exactly as House Stark would always warn other houses – "Winter Is Coming". Any further delays would only serve to increase neighboring tensions.

 _'The winters are hard but the Starks will endure. We always have. I must be as strong as my lady mother. I have to. For my family, for my children,'_  the Wolf Queen lectured herself.

Lifting the hems of her dress, Sansa stood tall and regal in her blue Northern attire befitting a Queen of her stature, displaying an air of confidence and conviction about her – strutting onto the docks of White Harbor with purpose. To put an end to this nonsense, she removed the hood from her head; her auburn Tully hair tussled back against the gusts of wind. A few of the Manderly port guards began noticing her approach and recognized her; one or two, however, failed to notice.

"Wha…?"

"My name is Sansa Stark of Winterfell," she formally introduced herself, "daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Queen Consort to King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name. I have come seeking an audience with your noble lord, Wyman of House Manderly."

Lord Wyman immediately recognized Sansa and knelt before her. "Oh, of course, Your Grace. Please forgive my men for their behavior. It will not happen again," he curtseyed. "We did not know you were coming. If we had, we would have welcomed you properly. House Manderly meant no disrespect of any sort."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord. How fares your son, Ser Wendel?"

"My son is quite well, Your Grace."

"That is a relief to hear, but… I cannot help but beseech you the question: what did you mean earlier when you said you were not expecting us? Did you not receive a raven?"

"No, Your Grace, we haven't. The North has been… rather on edge as of late, now that winter has come."

Sansa looked at her escort and they all shared the same suspicion. "Could you clarify?" she asked.

Lord Manderly rose. "White Harbor has been hearing some… conflicting reports near the Dreadfort. Apparently there's been some sort of skirmish with Lord Bolton's men and a few intruders before they took off to the Hornwood forest."

Olyvar exchanged glances between the two. "Was there a chance that someone called Arya Stark was involved in any way? She disappeared some time ago."

"We've known that as well, though my scouts did somehow get close enough to get a description of Lady Stark. Tall girl about the Queen's height, long brown hair, pretty face…"

Sansa furrowed her brow.  _'Wait a minute, something's not right. Arya is nine inches shorter than me and barely passes half my ribcage, so she's not that tall. And she definitely wasn't that pretty as a girl…'_  She decided to chime in. "Are you  _sure_  it was her?" the Wolf Queen asked, her tone changed with suspicion.

"So the assurances we've received from Lord Bolton imply, Your Grace," Wyman answered. "Why?"

"I'm afraid you've been deceived, my lord," Brienne suggested.

"Who told you this?" Ser Lucius implored.

The Lord of White Harbor's face switched from confusion to slow realization. "His bastard son Ramsay Snow denied the rumors. He…" his face twisted in outrage, "are you suggesting that bastard had the audacity to lie to me?!"

"Afraid so, my lord," Olyvar pointed out. "We even have evidence to believe it was Ramsay Snow himself who set Locke free from his prison and sent a dozen men to Dorne to assassinate the King."

"What?!"

"Trust me, Lord Manderly. I was there. King Daveth was lucky to escape with his life had we not intervened. So if Ramsay Snow says he doesn't actually have Arya Stark, chances are he does… and that he's up to something."

"What for?" asked one of the guardsmen.

Sansa shook her head. "I'm afraid we do not know, but if he does have my sister then her life is in grave danger." She turned to Wyman. "Lord Manderly, I know it's asking a bit much, but as a bannerman of House Stark – to my family – can you lend us your aid in the rescue and returning my sister to Winterfell safely?"

Lord Wyman nodded. "Of course, Your Grace. House Manderly will honor our pledge to House Stark," he huffed, eager to get some payback. "I'll have my son gather as many men as he can immediately. We'll ride out soon—"

"It has to be done now, my lord. If my sister is indeed out there, then I'm coming with you so I can verify for myself."

All looked surprised.

"Your Grace?" Olyvar spoke.

"Your Grace, I fear that would be an unwise move," Ser Lucius suggested. "Move too rashly then our enemies will be aware of our presence."

Brienne somewhat nodded in agreement. "Ser Lucius speaks the truth, Your Grace, no matter how much you don't wish to hear it. With White Harbor's aid, we should be able to find Lady Arya and bring her back to safety."

Sansa did not budge. "Your advice is kind as it is wise, really, but if my sister is indeed out there being hunted by Ramsay Snow – then I cannot side idle while my family is endangered again."

"Your Grace—"

"Some northerners still sneer at my ancestor as 'The King Who Knelt', forgetting that because of Torrhen Stark they're alive today to sneer. Their ancestors didn't leave their burned bones at the Trident and their twisted swords didn't fill Aegon the Conqueror's new throne 300 years ago."

As Manderly men-at-arms led by Lord Wyman's son and heir approached with a dozen men and horses, Sansa continued her lecture – no matter how firm she sounded, Sansa was a daughter of the North, a Queen… and emerged a wolf in her own right.

"The North remembers who united it even if some don't," she continued, "the North remembers who defended it and the North remembers who wrong us. Long ago my ancestors spared the Boltons, trusting their oaths of fealty. If Roose Bolton or his bastard son did indeed blatantly disregard their oaths by harming my sister or anyone under my care, then I shall correct that mistake. Even the North can forget when there's nothing left to remember. Have I made myself clear?"

Seven hells, even Ser Olyvar Frey started to sweat nervously despite the cold of winter. Ser Lucius, Brienne and Podrick all looked at each other and came to a conclusion that Sansa Stark was indeed serious. Sometimes they had to remember she was a Northmen, not a southern lady. But each of them swore a sacred oath to King Daveth Baratheon that they would keep Sansa safe from any and all harm, and they planned on doing just that.

"Crystal," Lucius relented, "but only if we accompany you."

"We promised the King we'd protect you," Brienne pointed out.

Sansa smiled. "Thank you."

One by one, each person climbed up on their respective horses and rode out with Ser Wendel Manderly leading the fray. Before the guests joined up with them, Sansa again felt nauseous and held her stomach once more. Lucius, Brienne, Podrick and Olyvar all noticed but were silenced when the Wolf Queen raised a hand up.

"When we bring Arya back to Winterfell, I'll need to see Maester Luwin," she told them.

Brienne nodded. "Of course, Your Grace. But be careful not to overexert yourself."

Sansa gave a soft chuckle at being reminded of her own words. "I promise, Brienne. I'll rely on all of you to keep me safe."

They nodded in approval and rode off to join the Manderly hosts out of White Harbor and into the forests beyond to locate and retrieve Arya Stark from the dangers of Ramsay Snow and his men. Unbeknownst to them, lurking behind them was a hooded figure—long black hair and violet eyes. Grabbing the saddle of a nearby horse, the hood was blown off to reveal Ariyana Dayne had snuck on board  _The Winter's Voyage_  undetected and followed the royal host not too far behind them.

Donned in leather garments to combat the cold North weather and carrying two swords at her waist, Ariyana had kept House Dayne's ancestral sword Dawn close by.

"Be careful out there, Stark," she whispered quietly. "I'll win back your trust, even if I have to give my life to do it."

Ariyana kicked the side of her horse and rode off in pursuit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter focusing solely on Sansa Stark, but I felt like there needed to be a bonding moment with a few of her selected bodyguards as they passed the time whilst en route to White Harbor. Think of cyvasse as a comparison to medieval chess and how the rules apply, whatever rocks your boat. With Sansa feeling a bit sick, does anyone care to speculate on what this possibly means for her? And lastly the individual who snuck on board the ship has been revealed to be Ariyana Dayne—apparently on a mission of redemption. Think she'll end up getting it? Thoughts? Let me know.


	108. Return of Snow

**At Castle Black…**

* * *

Having already witnessed such treasonous actions, Ser Davos gathered a few of Stannis Baratheon's personal guards and run down the steps towards Jon Snow's body as other brothers of the Night's Watch approach. Led by Eddison Tollet, all present were taken aback by the sight of their friend.

"It's the Lord Commander!"

"You're Dolorous Edd, aren't you?" Davos asked. "Help me get him inside."

All parties including the other Night's Watch brothers help pick up Jon Snow's lifeless body from a pool of his own blood and carry him inside of one of Castle Black's rooms. Ghost follows close by. While Eddison wipes a nearby table clean, Jon was placed on top of the table. Saddened and furious, Eddison placed his hand on Jon's wounds before brushing his eyes closed.

"Throne did this," he snarled.

"But why would he do this?"

"He hasn't seen what we've seen. The Fist of the First Men, Hardhome… he hasn't seen the true threat we've seen beyond the Wall. The White Walkers."

Davos blinked. "White Walkers? What're White Walkers?"

As if on cue, Mance Rayder and Tormund enter the room – surprising the Night's Watch brothers as they drew their blades before sheathing them. The former King-Beyond-the-Wall and his second-in-command both observe Jon Snow, Rayder and Tormund looking down almost mournfully – though each of their eyes indicated a sense of personal respect for the bastard Snow for sticking his neck out for the wildlings… even if it indeed cost him his life.

"The fuckin' dead; the reason why we Free Folk have been trying to get south of the Wall," Tormund explained. "Ye southerners think we wanted to invade? No, we've been trying to find safety the whole time. White Walkers have been pickin' us off for years."

"And we're nothing but sacks of meat in their army. The more living they slay, the larger in size the Army of the Dead grows," Mance chimed in. "Ned Stark's bastard might've been a crow, but Jon Snow was a good lad. I know when someone else's heart is in the right place even if another tries to steer him clear of it. He spoke for the Free Folk when no other southerners would."

"And he died for us."

"Perhaps not for good. Ser Davos," Melisandre made her announcement known.

Eddison looks over his shoulder at Davos, who reluctantly nods for him to stand aside. The Night's Watch brothers and few Free Folk back away to let the Red Priestess through; Melisandre visibly disturbed, whether at the sight of Jon Snow's body or the scolding ridicule of a lecture she received from the echelons of the Red Temple's high-ranking leadership. But there was a sense of uncertainty, as well; Melisandre's faith began to crack and lose faith as Vaeraleah's words slowly wormed its way into her head and the possible concept that she was following the wrong man.

"Why are you here?" one of the Night's Watch brothers asked.

Melisandre tried to maintain her faith. "I… just received word from the High Priestess of Asshai. It… would seem that the Lord of Light has plans for Jon Snow."

Davos remained skeptical. "All this time you've remained firm in your belief that your fire god favors our lord, Stannis Baratheon. Now you say He favors Jon Snow? Why the sudden change of heart?"

"Because I saw… I had a vision of him with two others in the flames, fighting against the darkness at Winterfell." She touches Jon Snow's cheek.

"The White Walkers," both Mance and Tormund acknowledge.

Melisandre nods. "Jon Snow, Daveth Baratheon, Daenerys Stormborn… it was them I saw in the flames. We'll need them alive when the darkness comes."

_'Stannis won't like hearing that,'_  the Onion Knight suspected. "But to do that we'll have to make it past Throne. He'll try to make it official before Lord Stannis can catch him, he'll try to take Castle Black for himself."

Eddison unsheathed his sword again. "I don't care who's sitting at the high table. Jon was my friend, and those fuckers butchered him. I say we returned the favor."

"We need more numbers before it ends in a bloodbath."

Mance took that as his cue. "Leave that part to us," he said turning to look at Tormund, "Gather the rest of our people. I think it's time to demonstrate what happens when you put yourself ahead of the group."

Tormund nodded in approval. "I'll be sure to get Wun Wun for this. Be sure to bolt the door behind me. Don't let any of them fuckin' crows in. I'll be back as soon as I can," he ruffed before leaving the room.

When Tormund left, Davos turned to Melisandre. "Do you know of any magic… that could help him? Bring him back?" he asks.

One of the Night's Watch brothers looked confused. "What magic? What are you talking about?"

"There are some with the Lord's power," she answers. "I met a man in the Riverlands who came back from the dead six times, but the priest who did it – It shouldn't have been possible. The High Priestess used the same magic to bring back your King from the dead twice now."

"But it was," Davos said. "It could be now. I saw you drink poison that should've killed you at Dragonstone. I saw you give birth to a demon made of shadows. Fuck the Lord of Light. Fuck all of them. I'm not a devout man, obviously. Seven Gods, drowned gods, tree gods, it's all the same. I'm not asking the Lord of Light for help. I'm asking the woman who showed me that miracles exist."

Melisandre looked surprised. "I… I never had this gift, Ser Davos."

"Have you ever tried?" he countered.

Davos, Mance, Eddison, and Melisandre all gather around Jon Snow's body while Ghost lies sleeping on the floor next to the table. The Red Priestess begins performing a ritual on Jon Snow's body, wringing out a wet cloth with which she cleans out the wounds, cuts his hair and beard and throws the hairs in a firepit before placing both her hands on Jon's chest.

"Zyhys oñoso jehikagon Aeksiot epi, se gis hen syndrorro jemagon. (We ask the Lord to shine His light, and lead a soul out of darkness)," she utters an incantation in Valyrian. "Zyhys perzys stepagon Aeksio Oño jorepi, se morghultas lys qelitsos sikagon. Hen syndrorro, oños. Hen ñuqir, perzys. Hen morghot, glaeson. (We beg the Lord to share His fire, and light a candle that has gone out. From darkness, light. From ashes, fire. From death, life.)"

Letting her hands down slowly, Melisandre withdraws herself from the table – looking to Davos, uncertain as to whether or not the spell she enchanted even worked. Gripping the large enchanted ruby necklace as it glowed, the Red Priestess had never even attempted to bring someone from the dead back to life in her almost four centuries of experience. Davos and Eddison linger and stare at Jon Snow's body, but failed to notice Ghost suddenly waking up and looking at the table.

After a moment of tense silence, it was broken by a sudden gasp.

"*GASP!* *huff* *huff*"

Jon Snow's eyes shoot wide open, gasping for breath.

"I-It… Lord Commander!" one of the Night's Watch brothers exclaimed with surprise.

Jon slowly sits up on the table, still breathing heavily. The resurrected Lord Commander of the Night's Watch shakes steadily and looks down at his body, feeling his stab wounds. Jon's gasping become much harsher and shaky before attempting to stand, but falters and nearly stumbles to the floor before Davos catches him and wraps Jon in his cloak.

"Easy, easy. Easy," the Onion Knight gently calms him.

Eddison assists Davos ushering Jon onto the ground into a sitting position. All the while, Melisandre drops to her knees and stares at Jon.

"What do you remember?"

Jon still shook. "They… they stabbed me," he said. "Olly… he-he put a knife in my heart. I-I shouldn't be here."

"Easy, Jon," Eddison calmed him. "The lady brought you back."

"Afterwards, after they stabbed you, after you died, where did you go?" asked Melisandre almost begging for an answer. "What did you see?"

Mance did not like the way the Red Priestess started bombarding Jon Snow with random questions as soon as he woke up again. The other Night's Watch rangers loyal to Jon protested rather loudly.

"Hey!"

"Back off, lady!"

Jon ignored them. "Nothing," he answered. "I saw nothing. There was nothing at all."

_'There's… nothing? But why?'_  Melisandre looked disappointed. "W-well whatever what was or wasn't seen, the Lord of Light brought you back for a reason. It seemed the whole time I misinterpreted prophecy," she turned to Davos. "You were right all along, Ser Davos. Stannis was not The Prince Who Was Promised, but rather there were three sides of the same pyramid to fulfill the destiny. Jon Snow is one of them."

Davos grabs a stool and sat down in front of Jon. "Ease up on the lad," he told her in a harsh, scolding manner before turning back to Jon. "You were dead. And now you're not. That's completely fucking mad, seems to me. I can only imagine how it seems to you."

"I did what I thought was right. And I got murdered for it!" Jon shouted. "And now I'm back. Why?"

Mance sat down next to him. "None of us knows the truth. Maybe there are some things we'll never know, but what does it matter, Jon Snow? You go on doing what you do best: fight. You fight for as long as you can. You endure as much shit as you can."

"I… I don't know how to do that. I thought I did, but… I failed."

"We all can't learn from our mistakes without failing at least a few times. Learn from your mistakes and mine. Now go fail again."

* * *

**At the Castle Black mess hall…**

* * *

Ser Alliser Thorne, First Ranger, sat at the high table among the other leaders of the Night's Watch First Steward Bowen Marsh and First Builder Othell Yarwyck, watching and listening to the rest of the Night's Watch brothers-in-arms shouting at each other when they all learned the death of Lord Commander Jon Snow.

"He was our Lord Commander!" one hollered.

Another yelled. "He never should have been!"

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

Pounding his fists on the high table three times, Alliser demanded silence – immediately causing the entire room to quiet down. All eyes were soon locked onto him now. Upon rising from his seat, Alliser decided to get straight to business.

"You all know why you're here. Jon Snow is dead," he informed them.

The men murmured amongst themselves for a few moments.

"Who killed him?" one asked.

Before Alliser could reply, Stannis Baratheon and his men barged into the main hall. The assembled Night's Watch quickly rose from their seats, taken by surprise by the Lord of Dragonstone's entrance before gripping their swords at the sight of Stannis's armed guards arriving alongside him.

"Your very own leaders in this castle," Stannis informed them. "Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, Othell Yarwyck… even the boy he took under his wing. You all turned against your own Lord Commander, mutinied against Jon Snow and took a turns at stabbing him in the heart again and again."

Once the Night's Watch was informed of this stunning revelation, they all quickly turned their sights on their own leaders.

"Murderers!"

"Traitors!"

"Oathbreakers!"

The shouting resumes. Olly walks up beside the high table, possibly fearing that everyone in the room will kill them all. Alliser sensed the Night's Watch was ready to kill him, but again remained firm in his decision.

"You're right!" he shouts dispelling any ideas that he regrets it or that he is alone. Any hint of hesitation or guilt would be deadly for him here, and he knows it. "Lord Stannis is right. We've committed treason, all of us. Jon Snow was my Lord Commander. I had no love for him. That was no secret."

Having established that this mutiny involved several people, Ser Alliser makes the leap and extends the blame to everyone present, the entire Night's Watch. While not strictly a true statement, it gives the sworn brothers pause. None of them can be sure just how big this mutiny was, and suddenly speaking out against it feels like a dangerous prospect. Alliser breezes past this lie by following it up with an undeniable truth, an empty confession. Everyone knew he hated Jon. Stannis noticed the silence, before noticing the men murmuring amongst themselves again as Alliser made his next move by appealing to their sense of duty.

"But I've never disobeyed an order. Not once," he continued. "Loyalty is the foundation on which The Night's Watch is built and the Watch means everything to me. I have given my life, we have all given our lives to the Night's Watch. Jon Snow was going to destroy the Night's Watch!"

The men looked shocked and turned towards one another for verification; a few glanced at Stannis and his outnumbered guards. If they decided they were to remove him by force, they very well could – yet remained motionless against the more experienced, hardened Baratheon lord.

"Jon Snow let the wildlings through our gates as no Lord Commander has ever done before! He gave them the very land on which they reaved and raped and murdered!"

Again, Ser Alliser remains taking a straightforward approach. He takes accountability and explains his reasons, which do make sense. These wildlings have been reaving and raping as far back as memory goes. It's a small picture view, but it's relevant all the same. He also points out, he has been completely loyal in his own view. This is probably the most compelling part of the argument for the Night's Watch brothers. Most of them disagreed strongly with Jon's particular decision here. Allowing their ancient bitter enemies of thousands of years through the gates to eat and live with them. When the Wildlings outnumbered the Night's Watch, the brothers began to fear for their own safety.

"Lord Commander Snow did what he thought was right, I have no doubt about that. And what he thought was right would've been the end of us. He thrust a terrible choice upon us and we made it," Alliser concluded, reiterating his previous points.

Stannis, however, did not buy it. "Even treachery is not lacking as far north as the Wall itself; how corrupt the Night's Watch has become despite our contributions."

That sparked anger amongst the crowd.

"How dare you question our honor?!"

"Unbelievable!"

"Where I come from, treason is met with a different sort of punishment," Stannis continued. "Unlike some lords of Westeros, I do not forget. I do not pardon. I do not punish men for bravery, I reward them. And I execute traitors. 'Death or the Wall? Take your pick,' my brother Robert said that twenty years ago when you refused to bend the knee after the Mad King fell, Ser Alliser."

Ser Alliser felt his blood run cold at the apparent threat. Several others remain loyal to him as the First Ranger glared at Stannis.

"I think it's time for you to leave," he huffed. "You've overstayed your welcome here at Castle Black. Go in peace now and never come back. Nobody needs to die tonight."

Refusing to abide by the words of a traitor, Stannis Baratheon and his men unsheathed their swords – prompting the Night's Watch rangers to do the same. Sure they were outnumbered, but Stannis refused to give any ground. Ser Alliser, Yarwyck, Olly and Marsh looked rather confident in themselves… believing their superior numbers would win the day. Before each side came to blows, all in the room heard loud thudding emanating from outside.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

One of the Night's Watch stewards ran inside. "We've got trouble! There's a large group of wildlings attacking the gate!" he shouted.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

Each of the Night's Watch rangers pushed their way past Stannis and his guards and gathered in the courtyard. Stannis decided to take a moment to observe the commotion, but not before seeing Davos, Melisandre, Eddison, Ghost, Grenn… and of course, the resurrected Jon Snow on the upper balcony just out of sight. Pleased with the Red Priestess's resurrection spell, Stannis's lips curled and folded his arms – watching in silence as Ser Alliser and his followers readied themselves for battle.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

After several more, increasing and more forceful rams, Castle Black's main gates were broken down by the giant Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun – allowing the other wildlings led by Tormund to rush into the courtyard. Mance Rayder decided to take the initiative and leapt from the upper balcony on top of a Night's Watch ranger loyal to Ser Alliser Thorne, pouncing on him and shoved his blade into his back. Alliser notices the archers have their bows drawn at the wildlings, but do not fire. Instead, they back away slowly.

"Attack!" he shouts.

Deciding to take part, Eddison, Grenn and their sworn brothers loyal to Jon surrounded their comrades on all sides. Stannis orders his men to flank them, his troops armed with swords, spears, pikes and shields huddled them in a compact double envelopment formation. As Alliser draws his sword, a Night's Watch ranger charges at Tormund but is easily cut down. This causes the other Night's Watch members on the ground to recognize they were surrounded on all sides and could not retaliate.

"Fight, you cowards!" Alliser roars again.

"You're surrounded, Ser Alliser," Stannis points out. "All you'll end up doing is getting the entire order wiped out."

A Night's Watch archer on a balcony shoots Wun Wun in the shoulder with a crossbow bolt; the giant appears unfazed and turns to face the man before grabbing him by the legs, slamming him against a wall and tosses his body to the ground in front of Alliser. One by one, each of the mutineers allied to Alliser began dropping their swords in surrender. Tormund, Mance, Eddison and Grenn approach the First Ranger with swords drawn at him.

"You fucking traitor," Alliser cursed at them.

Grenn pointed the tip of his blade at Alliser's throat. " _You're_  the fucking traitor, you murderous piece of shit!" he shouted.

Eddison agreed. "The only traitors here are the ones who shoved their knives into their Lord Commander's heart."

"For thousands of years the Night's Watch has held Castle Black against the wildlings," the First Ranger declared.

Mance got in his face. "Until you," he corrected him.

Olly shouts and charges at the former King-Beyond-the-Wall with his sword, but is quickly apprehended by Tormund and disarmed, then tossed to another man who restrains him. Nodding his head upwards, Mance directs his surviving followers to apprehend Alliser by the arms.

"Throw them into the cells where they belong, like they did to us," he ordered.

As the Free Folk and Night's Watch members loyal to Jon dragged Alliser Thorne, Olly and the other betrayers away, Tormund and Eddison look up at the balcony where Jon Snow stood – who noticed the whole thing in the courtyard before his very eyes.

"We'll led Snow decide their fate in the morning," the wildling chieftain proclaimed. "But somethin' tells me that the backstabbing crows will be getting' their comeuppance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow is brought back to life, but the traitorous Night's Watch members who sided with Ser Alliser Thorne ended up getting easily routed by both those loyal to Jon and Mance Rayder and Stannis Baratheon. Although he's no longer the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance played a role in apprehending the mutineers and decided to return the favor for what they did to Ned Stark's bastard. Think this was poetic justice? I'll let you guys decide. Next chapter will return our attention towards Daveth Baratheon and his conflict with the High Sparrow and his followers. Thoughts? Let me know.


	109. I Will Not Let You Get Away With This

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am hers and she is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

"Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger… I am his and he is mine. From this day, until the end of my days."

Daveth stood amongst the invited guests that filled the gardens, watching with pride as Myrcella of House Baratheon and Trystane of House Martell became man and wife. The gathering consisted of his children, his brother, his mother-in-law, both his uncles, the Tyrells, Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand, and a local Septon, Bryndan, was asked to officiate the ceremony. The only person not in attendance was Prince Doran, who was unable to travel due to his gout. He had sent a raven the day before, however, wishing his son and daughter-in-law a life of happiness together.

"My lords and ladies, Your Grace, I now present the Prince and Princess of Dorne, Trystane and Myrcella Martell!"

***APPLAUSE!***

As the party retired to the adjacent feast, Daveth watched Myrcella kiss Trystane's cheek. He had seen his sister this happy in a long time, not since she was a little girl. But the Young Stag resigned himself to the fact that she was now a grown woman...and that the newlyweds would inevitably have to return to Dorne. At least they would be staying in King's Landing for a little longer. Long enough for his now-brother-in-law to nominate someone to take his place as Master of Laws.

"Wook, auntie! Fow you."

Daveth turned in time to see Cassana thrust a white lily into Myrcella's hands and a gushing Myrcella warmly embraces her niece, whispering a thank you into the ear of the young princess.

"Welcome to the family, Princess," Oberyn said.

"Thank you all so much for being here on this special day."

"So," Jaime asked half-jokingly as he sat next to Daveth, "is it still Myrcella Baratheon to you…? Or is it Myrcella Martell?"

The thought made the Young Stag shudder. "That last part just doesn't really roll off the tongue, uncle. But if Myrcella's happy, then I suppose I don't care what she calls herself now."

"He hurts her, I'll break his legs."

"Break his legs, you piss off Dorne. But I suppose I see where you're coming from."

"Do you now? Are you envisioning a future where some young lad whisks Cassana away back to his castle? Oh, and what will Sansa think when Lyonel comes of age and takes a woman to wife?"

"Hey, that's my son and daughter you're talking about," he hissed.

"Seems fatherhood has changed you, Your Grace," Ser Loras chimed in. "For the better, I mean. You seem more… relaxed."

"In a way," Daveth replied. "When you have a wife and children of your own one day, you'll understand what I mean."

The Knight of the Flowers nodded unenthusiastically. "I understand I've got my own wedding coming soon. Ser Kevan tells me that the bride is quite lovely."

_'Okay, that sounded very sarcastic – given his… "preferences". Well, best learn to get used to it and make the best of your situation, Ser Loras; even your sister, your father, and Lady Olenna all understand the importance of producing an heir to keep House Tyrell from fading away,'_ he mentally told him. "She is. Janei is eighteen and I'm sure she will give you many sons in the months and years to come. Tell me, are you looking forward to your wedding?"

"Yes. Very much."

_'You are a terrible liar.'_

The three turned to see Margaery and Tommen sitting together, the former trading gossip with several of her handmaidens. Even from a distance, Daveth could see what was going on; Margaery giggling like a schoolgirl, Tommen blushing and scratching the back of his head in embarrassment, the comments about breaking the record. She was bragging about her future husband's libido.

"And I said, 'Darling, surely four times is enough, are you trying to set a new record?' And Tommen says, 'Well, what is the record? I'm sure we can break it.'"

Even from a distance, Daveth heard portions of what his sister-in-law said. "Your sister seems quite taken with my brother," he said.

"And he with her," Loras agreed. "Marriage agrees with them both. They make quite a pair, don't they?"

"Yes,  _rather_  interesting," Jaime chimed in. "Look, Tommen is a good lad. Gullible, yes, but there's not one mean bone in his body. Not one. Even as his uncle, I notice those puppy dog eyes he gives her. I don't want to see him hurt."

"That won't happen, Ser Jaime. I assure you," the Knight of the Flowers replies dismissively.

The Young Stag almost wanted to glare at him.  _'I'd hope so for your sake, Ser Loras. If I find out Margaery plans on using my youngest brother like you did Renly, then I'm going to be very angry.'_

As the guests enjoyed music, dance and wine, a Lannister guardsman approached the King – leaning forward to whisper into his ear.

"Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but there's been a situation in the city that I think urges a moment of your time," he says quietly.

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "What's going on, Lieutenant?" he requests, turning around to face the guard who materialized behind him.

"I don't know for sure, but it seems the Sparrows are on the move. They've broken the High Sparrow out of prison. Commander Duran and the City Watch are waiting for you at the Street of Silk."

Nodding in understanding the severity of the situation, the Young Stag calmly rose from his seat. "I apologize for the inconvenience, my lords and ladies," he said aloud, "but a pressing matter has come demanding my attention. Myrcella, Prince Trystane, I congratulate the two of you on your marriage and give you my blessing."

"Brother?" Myrcella looked surprised.

"Your Grace?" Trystane looked equally surprised as well.

Even the remaining Lannisters and Tyrells began murmuring amongst each other in confusion. With that, the Young Stag left the table and followed the lieutenant out of the garden, leaving the confused guests to talk in hushed whispers and two equally confused children to wonder where their father was going. Catelyn watched Daveth being led away, holding both her grandson and granddaughter close as she felt increasingly suspicious about her son-in-law's activities.

"Daddy?" Cassana piped up.

"Daddy?" Lyonel squeaked.

* * *

**At the Street of Silk…**

* * *

"Stay back! Nothing to see here!"

"Everyone return to your homes!"

Commander Duran and a few of his men waited at the Street of Silk, his subordinates moved to keep the crowd at bay. All in all, maintaining order had been easy. Business owners and householders didn't bother to put up any resistance to the new and improved law enforcement, but were quick to notice the King's entourage arriving on the scene. He waited until King Daveth had made his way through the crowd, accompanied by the Lannister guardsman Lieutenant Tyral.

"It's the King," one murmured.

"Seven hells, if the Oathkeeper himself came here then that means something  _serious_  must be going on," exclaimed another.

Daveth politely pushed his way past the crowd towards the City Watch – each of them bowed their heads in acknowledgment. "At ease, men," he said. "Commander, Lieutenant Tyral here said you wanted to see me?"

"Yes, Your Grace," Duran said with a nod. "My apologies for the mess, but it seems these Sparrows are elusive than we thought."

"Give me the overview."

"Looks like these Sparrows had infiltrators of their own. One of them disguised themselves as City Watch before allowing several others inside the barracks. They proceeded to kill our men guarding the High Sparrow's cell to await trial. Slit their throats. By the time we arrived, the High Sparrow escaped to who-knows-where in this city."

"And the culprit?"

"In that building over there, Your Grace," Duran replied, directing at the structure behind him. "We've been holding him for questioning. Gave my men a bit of a fight, he did."

"One man gave six men of the City Watch trouble?"

"It's… rather complicated, I'm afraid."

"How complicated?"

"Well… there's more," he continued. "The man we caught, he says he knows you on a first-name basis."

Daveth looked up, a suspicious look now etched across his face.  _'Who among these fanatics knows me? Could be a lie, but…'_  "Can you give an overall description as to what this man looks like to me?" he requested.

"About two inches shorter than you, blonde sandy hair, green eyes, wore rough-spun robes of dyed black wool fastened around the waist with chains…"

The Young Stag froze at the mere mention. This sounded like someone he knows. "Does he by any chance happen to have hollow cheeks and a gaunt, grey face?" he said abruptly, narrowing his eyes.

Now Duran was curious. "Uhh, yes, Your Grace. Why?" he asked interested.

Daveth felt his hands curling into a tight fist. "Come with me, Commander," he said in a serious tone.

Following the King into the building to where the culprit was being held, a few of the City Watch remained outside near the doorway to stand guard. Once they were inside, Daveth and Duran were led to the holding cells where the culprit behind the High Sparrow's breaking out of prison was held in chains. Duran lit a torch, allowing light into the room – but Daveth's expression darkened when he recognized the chained prisoner in question.

"You…!" Daveth snarled.

"Seven blessings, cousin," the prisoner greeted in a monotone voice. "My apologies for us having to meet again like this."

Duran looked at Daveth. "Your Grace, you know this man?" he asked, confused as to how the King knew this madman.

The Young Stag nodded. "Yes, I do. Lancel Lannister; once squired for my father King Robert – before he became an accomplice in orchestrating his murder five years ago. Although he faced the risk of execution when he assisted Cersei Lannister in committing regicide, he later testified against her and Littlefinger. Lancel was barred from the city afterwards, never to set foot anywhere in King's Landing ever again or he would face the King's Justice."

"Is that so?" the Commander turned to his prisoner, seizing the opportunity to speak up. A faint memory surfaced in his mind. He saw the prisoner testifying against the Queen Mother and the late Lord Baelish. "Lancel Lannister. We've heard a lot about you in the barracks. Looks like you won't be getting off easy this time."

"It's Brother Lancel now," Lancel replied. "We in the Sparrows have longed abandoned our family names."

"It's the same thing, boy. Do you realize much trouble you're in for you've done here?"

"Our divine mandate is clear, Commander. Defend the Faith against acts deemed sinful, smash false idols, flood the gutters with wine, send the godless on the run… and pray for those who have strayed. Like you, cousin."

Both the Young Stag and the Commander stared at him, eyes wide and mouths agape at that remark. Lancel ignored him, continuing to preach as if he were standing on the steps of the Great Sept of Baelor.

"It is not too late for you, cousin. Repent for your sins and the Mother will bless you with Her mercy. She will forgive you as She's forgiven me. She helped me find peace in the light of the Seven, finding a new sense of purpose with the High Sparrow's guidance. Join us and we will defend the Faith together. It'll be just like old times—"

"It will  _never_  be like old times and you know it, Lancel. I swore if I ever saw you in my city again, I'd cut you in half," Daveth spat. "You wronged me, you wronged my house and you expect me to forget what you've done? You're dangerously deluded if not arrogant as ever."

Lancel knew, but was not surprised, that he would not get through. "Then do you mean to kill me?" he asked. "An unarmed, helpless prisoner? If so, then you'll be further corrupting your soul with sin."

"Don't even think of going there, boy," Duran chided him. "Your Grace, don't do it. We have enough evidence to bring him to trial. You kill him and we lose our only chance of finding the High Sparrow."

Daveth gripped his dagger tight, but did not budge.  _'He's goading you, Daveth. Don't give him the satisfaction of turning him into a martyr,'_  he argued with himself, feeling his darker impulse egging him on while his humanity urged him not to give in.  _'Listen to Commander Duran, Daveth. Don't do it. Remember Ser Barristan's lessons, remember Jon Arryn's counsel. No matter how much you might want to, don't give in to your anger. You're better than that. Remember the vows you swore six years ago: In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave. In the name of the Father, I charge you to be just. In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent…'_

Taking a moment to breathe in and out to relax, the Young Stag steadily calmed himself down and released his grip. Commander Duran was pleased, Lancel remained indifferent.

"If your plan it to make yourself a martyr, then you're sadly mistaken. I pity you, you blind misguided fool," Daveth told him. "Commander, have the City Watch double the patrols, keep a sharp lookout for the Sparrow activity or the High Sparrow himself. And in the meantime, I recommend you do a very thorough background check so this debacle doesn't happen again."

Duran huffed. "It'll be done, Your Grace. Men! Get to work!"

"Private," the King called out.

A young recruit steadily approached, nearly stumbling over. "Y-yes, Your Grace?" he said nervously.

"Go to the Red Keep. Report everything that's happened here directly to the Hand of the King and the Small Council.  _Now_."

"Y-Yes, Your Grace! At once, Your Grace!" he ran out.

With the rest of the City Watch shifting into overdrive, increasing the patrols, searching every building for the Sparrows and their leader… as well as ferrying out infiltrators in their ranks. As the activity was going on, Daveth moved to return to the Red Keep – but shifted his position from Rhaenys' Hill and instead changed direction through the Street of Sisters towards Visenya's Hill.

"The Great Sept of Baelor? We're not going back to the Red Keep, Your Grace?" asked Lieutenant Tyral.

Daveth shook his head. "Not yet, Lieutenant; I think this whole ordeal should at least be brought to the attention of the Most Devout themselves. Let's just hope that Septa Rosyn already knows what's going on. The threat these Sparrows represent must be dealt now."

* * *

**Somewhere in the Northern wilderness…**

* * *

Theon carried Jeyne in his arms as he frantically ran through the frozen woods, ignoring the heavy snow and cold winds blowing against him. Jeyne wrapped her arms tightly around her rescuer's neck, panting with fear and in pain. During the escape from the Dreadfort, both Theon and Jeyne had jumped off the ramparts to escape from Ramsay Snow – but as they fell into the snow, Jeyne twisted her ankle pretty bad and broke some of her ribs in the progress. Despite the snow cushioning their impact, Jeyne was unable to move on her own.

Both heard dogs barking in the distance, knowing they were being pursued.

*"Woof! Woof! Woof!"*

"I-it's him. It's him! It's him! It's him! It's him," Jeyne's breathing shook. She was having a bad panic attack.

"We can't stop," Theon resumed running.

The pair had been running through the Hornwood forest towards the Kingsroad. From there, should luck hold out, Theon and Jeyne would be able to make it north to Winterfell. In their pursuit to throw the hounds off their trail, Theon had to carry Jeyne across the White Knife River. Both gasped and shuddered; because it was winter and the North was already battered with snow, the river was very cold.

"I-I-I wa-want t-to g-g-go h-home," Jeyne's voice cracked while she shivered, almost as if she were to cry. "P-please don't let m-me die, Th-Theon. I don't want to die…"

Theon shivered in the icy waters as they waded across. "Y-y-you're gonna m-make it, J-Jeyne," he reassured her, his teeth chattered. "W-we're g-going home!"

Both made it across, though were blue with cold. Theon notices the barking can no longer be heard and spots something in front of him past the trees.

"I-I see the K-K-Kingsroad!" he points.

Jeyne shuddered, still unable to move due to her injuries. Steadily, with the faintest gleam of hope in her eyes, for the first time she felt like she was going to see her home again. She was going to see Winterfell again. They walked as far as they could before stopping to take shelter from the snow under an overturned tree. Theon gently laid Jeyne down, both of them shivering. Instinctively, he wraps his arms around her and massages Jeyne to increase her body temperature. Jeyne rests her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, but quickly raises them once she suddenly heard dogs barking close by.

*"Woof! Woof! Woof!"*

"Damn it," Theon cursed.

Jeyne clutched Theon's arm tightly. "D-don't let them take me. Please, don't let them take me," she whimpered.

_'If this is going to be the end, then those fuckers aren't going to take us alive,'_  the ironborn stood. Theon decided he was going to stand his ground, despite his arms and legs shaking in the cold. Gripping the handle of his longsword, Theon faces down House Bolton soldiers and hounds.

"Well, well. Lord Ramsay's hounds are quite handy," one of the Bolton soldiers remarked.

"The chase is over, ironborn," remarked another.

"Return Lady Arya and  _maybe_  we'll make it painless."

Theon didn't budge. "She was never yours to begin with. Leave now, or I'll—"

"Or you'll what?" they laughed. "I can't wait to see what part Ramsay'll cut off you when we present him  _two_  prizes for the taking, just like he did your bloody friends."

_'Then… they really are dead,"_  he realized grimly.

*"Woof! Woof! Woof!"*

Distracted by the confrontation, the dogs catch Jeyne's scent and began barking once they see her under the roots of the tree. Jeyne back away from them – cowering and batting their snouts when they got too close; one of the soldiers moves to grab her, but Theon stands in his way.

"Get away from her!" he yelled.

The Boltons unsheathed their swords. "Time for us to have some fun then," they grinned wickedly.

Before swords could swing, all in attendance heard a familiar voice – a feminine one with flowing red hair.

"Stop right there!" she yelled. "Men, help them!"

*"Neeeigh!"*

Everyone turned their heads once they heard horses whining in the distance before they closed the gap. The Bolton soldiers draw their weapons as Sansa, Brienne, Podrick, Lucius and Olyvar rode towards them accompanied by Ser Wendel and the Manderly host.

"It's the Manderlys!" they recognized.

Before more could respond, Brienne cuts down a Bolton officer with Stormbringer as she rides past. Lucius and Podrick engage two in mounted combat as the Manderly men-at-arms begin circling around Theon and Jeyne for protection. Lucius's mace clashes with a Bolton's blade, knocking it out of his hands before flicking his wrist to swing back around connecting it with his jaw. The force of the impact made a sickening crack as blood spewed from his mouth and he stumbled back; Olyvar thrusted forward and stabbed him from behind, killing him.

Brienne is knocked off her horse by a soldier advancing towards her and is kicked in the gut, but the Maid of Tarth retaliates by driving a dagger into his knee. As the Bolton soldier drops to his knees, Brienne cuts him down. Noticing another mounted soldier charging towards Sansa, Olyvar jumps and strikes him – causing his horse to fall over, trapping him beneath it.

While her bodyguards fought off the intruders, Sansa rode over to Theon.

"Sansa!" Theon exclaimed surprised.

Jeyne had her ears covered, but recognized the faintest sound. "S-Sansa…?" she asked.

"Jeyne?!" the Wolf Queen's eyes widened in shock; she dismounted and rushed over to embrace her childhood friend.

_'That scent… She smells like lemon cake and honey. Oh Sansa, it really is you!'_  Jeyne's eyes watered and immediately hugged her friend closely, sobbing loudly against Sansa's shoulder.

Theon moves to defend them, fighting a charging Bolton before disarming and cleaving him in two. Lucius advances on another soldier who he recently crippled and bashes his head with his mace. Podrick who engages on in combat is knocked aside and is about to strike, before Theon intervenes – stabbing him from behind. Once they determined their pursuers were dead, all turned towards Sansa and Jeyne.

"Wait a minute," Wendel noticed, "that's not Lady Arya Stark."

"Careful now," another examined. "Girl's got a busted ankle, and from the looks of it… three broken ribs, too."

Sansa continued hugging her friend. "No. She's Jeyne Poole… my best friend," she replies. "Gods have mercy, what did they do to you?"

"Oh Sansa! I-it was horrible!" Jeyne still cried. "They-they… *hic!* I just wanna go home! *hic!* Please! I wanna go home!"

As Jeyne never left Sansa's shoulder, the Wolf Queen looked to Theon. "Theon," she said calmly, yet also frighteningly. "What exactly happened to her?"

Theon felt a chill crawl down his spine. "I… we heard rumors of Arya being at the Dreadfort being wedded to Roose Bolton's bastard son," he explained. "Even if some of the Northern houses expressed doubts, the rest just didn't make sense. So I asked Robb to spare some of his guards so we could investigate. When we got there," his breath shook, "it was like something conjured out of a dream and made it real – twisted, cruel, vicious… evil. I've never seen anything like it."

"And?" Sansa pressed demanding answers.

"It took a while for us to find the bedchambers," he continued, "but we found it… and Jeyne. The things Ramsay did to her was just—"

"Ramsay did this? Ramsay  _Snow_?"

All could tell the more Sansa heard, the angrier she was slowly becoming. It took a lot to make Sansa this upset and she was generally more in control of herself than Daveth was in regards to emotional restraint, but something within her snapped. Jeyne was a cherished friend of hers since they were children – almost like sisters. No one in the North ever dared to provoke or anger a Stark like this. Sansa, however, was something else entirely.

"Where are the rest of your men?" the Wolf Queen demanded.

Theon glanced at his feet. "They… they're all dead. Ramsay and his men found us. I'm all that's left."

Sansa continued to listen. The more Theon explained, the more pieces of the puzzle fit into place. Once she had determined she had everything she needed to hear, Sansa nodded.

"I believe you," she said calmly in a chilly manner. "Saddle up! Everyone back on your horses. We're going to Winterfell.  _All_ of us." Sansa turned to Jeyne. "It's all right, Jeyne," she said compassionately. "We're going home. No one's going to hurt you again… not while I'm here."

Jeyne sniffled and nodded her head. Theon gently helped her mount on the horse with Sansa; the Poole survivor wrapping her arms around Sansa's waist to keep herself steady despite the pain and discomfort. She sniffled as they gently road to Winterfell which was some several miles away – they'd reach House Stark's ancestral castle by early tomorrow morning.

"*sniffle!*"

"Shh, shh. It's okay, Jeyne. I'm here," Sansa patted her friend gently.

Jeyne nodded slowly. "Thank *hic!* you. *sniffle!* I… *hic!* I missed you so much, Sansa."

The Wolf Queen frowned sadly. "I missed you too, Jeyne. I missed you too."

As they rode off on the Kingsroad, what they failed to notice was a Bolton scout observing them from a faraway distance before running back towards the White Knife River. He would report his findings to the Dreadfort, to House Bolton… and more importantly, to his ultimate master.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trystane Martell and Myrcella Baratheon get married, though Daveth leaves early when he is informed of the High Sparrow being broken out of prison. In the middle of the confusion, Lancel Lannister is back and has joined the Sparrows. Daveth felt his rage boiling but exercised restraint when he felt the sudden desire to kill his second cousin. In King's Landing, things will no doubt come to a head the moment after Daveth meets with the Most Devout, the high-ranking leaders of the Faith of the Seven. Meanwhile in the North, Sansa and her men managed to rescue Theon Greyjoy and Jeyne Poole from Ramsay's men – but the wolf inside the Queen Consort was brought to the surface. Sansa is furious. Think how the next chapter will end up? Thoughts? Let me know.


	110. Test of Faith, Burning Ambition

**At the Great Sept of Baelor…**

* * *

Daveth felt his skin crawl as he stood waiting for the Most Devout, a council of the eight highest-ranking clergy of the Faith of the Seven. Lieutenant Tyral, on the other hand, did not particularly feel comfortable having to be in the massive sept – possibly due to paranoia about feeling as if the center of religious worship was somehow a trap.

"I've got a bad feeling about this, Your Grace," Tyral said suspiciously.

Daveth favored him with a nod; he understood the Lannister guardsman's suspicion, so long as it did not get in the way of his judgment. "So you say, Lieutenant. Even in times of peace a soldier must never let his guard down, not even for a moment."

"And if so then none of us are fit for the line of duty due to laziness and incompetence. I understand."

The Young Stag gazed at the statues of the Seven. "They should be here soon. Surely they must've received word," he mentioned.

"Think the Sparrows might have friends in high places?"

"Not that I'm aware of, though I wouldn't put it past them. Let's just focus on the here and now, Lieutenant."

The Great Sept of Baelor was nearly as quiet as a tomb, but was broken by the silent approach of footsteps. Daveth's ears perked up at the sound reverberating off the walls and turned his head towards the statue of the Father, watching as eight clergy of the Faith approached them; four Septons and four Septas. The Young Stag recognized Septa Rosyn among them who in turn noticed him – though this was his first encounter with the rest: Septons Raynard, Torbert, Luceon Frey, and Russal. The other Septas, with the exception of one, he also did not recognize: Septas Moelle, Unella and Helicent.

"Seven blessings on you, Your Grace. You honor us with your presence," they greeted him.

Daveth politely bowed his head. "Seven blessings, esteemed clergy of the Faith's Most Devout; I apologize for the intrusion, but there wasn't enough time to arrange a more proper meeting."

"It is no trouble, child," Rosyn says reassuringly.

"You look troubled. What plagues your mind, oh great and noble King?" inquires Luceon.

"I am sure you have been aware of an armed heretical movement that plagues the streets of King's Landing and threatens to erode the tenants of the Faith of the Seven, twisting and perverting the principles on which our religion was founded by our Andal ancestors 6,000 years ago. They call themselves Sparrows."

"Yes, we've known about them and their High Sparrow for quite some time," replied Torbert.

"Which is why we require a  _proper_  authority to guide them back to order," exclaimed Moelle. Stiff white hair and a wrinkled stern face, this female clergy's curled in perpetual disapproval and small eyes that look constantly crinkled in suspicion.

"Septa, I fear that might no longer be the case," Helicent chimed in. "Without a new High Septon to guide the Faith, the flock are without a shepherd."

Daveth raised a curious. "'Without a new High Septon'… Did I miss something?" he asked.

Rosyn nodded regretfully. "Ever since word reached us of His High Holiness's… ah, sinful perversion, the Most Devout has unanimously voted to remove him from the office. Until then, we are convening amongst ourselves to elect a more suitable successor."

"You say that now, Septa, but only time will tell if the sentiment remains true," Moelle retorted.

"With the Faith's leadership position vacant, I imagine the Sparrows will try to flout our authority and undermine us all. With interest."

"Exactly why all this should be left to a new High Septon. With one who takes their duty to the Gods seriously, all will be right again."

"Or be happy to use the office to blaspheme."

"Or conveniently bent backwards and swept under a carpet."

_'The situation appears to be more volatile than I thought,'_  the Young Stag looked deep in thought. "So until then, nothing can be done?"

Unella was the only one who remained silent.

"I'm afraid not, Your Grace," Luceon shook his head. "We know it's asking a bit much, but… the Faith and the Crown are the two pillars that hold up this world. If one collapses, then so does the other. Can the Crown help us? Will you help defend the Faith at least until a new High Septon is chosen?"

Daveth nodded. "Of course, Your Reverence. The Crown will protect and defend the Holy Faith and those who practice it since the peace signed by the Faith and King Jaeherys the Conciliator."

"The Seven have truly smiled when they've sent you to us," Rosyn smiled.

Feeling as if it was a rather short, albeit brief discussion with the Faith of the Seven's top leadership, both Daveth and Tyral rose from their respective seats – shook hands with the other and prepared to leave. During the exchange of blessings and kind words, Daveth felt a crinkling paper being transferred into his hand by Septa Rosyn. He looked at her confused, but something in his gut warned him of how she looked at him.

"Trust me," she whispered quietly so that none heard her.

Upon their departure, the Young Stag quietly noticed that the now-former High Septon was leaving King's Landing with his luggage in tow, his head lowered in shame and defeat. Judging from the sigil on the carriage sent to escort the disgraced clergyman—a stone white watchtower with fire on the top on a grey field, Daveth had determined the former High Septon was being relocated to Oldtown in the Reach.

"What do we do now, Your Grace?" whispered Tyral.

"With the office of High Septon now vacant, then I fear our conflict with the Sparrows is bound to get violent. Go back to the garrison, Lieutenant, and mobilize the troops. Have them assist the City Watch," he told him. "Station them on the streets, the ramparts, even the Red Keep. Leave nothing to chance."

"Understood," he nodded and left to spread word of the King's summons to the garrisons stationed in the capital.

Daveth, on his way back to the Red Keep, began steadily unrolling the piece of paper in his hands given to him by Septa Rosyn earlier – unknowingly finding himself walking down the Street of Flour. Upon doing so, the Young Stag began reading the contents as passersby glanced at the King in their presence—most of them bakers.

"Try a sample, Your Grace?" one offered a piece of pie.

Daveth blinked. "What? Oh, no thank you, ser," he politely declined.

"Lemon cake?"

"Not today, thank you."

Returning his focus towards the parchment, the Young Stag's eyes followed the words Rosyn wrote in her message.

_"Be on guard, Daveth. The likelihood of betrayal from within is high. Send word to your royal councilors as soon as you can,"_  it read.

_'Septa Rosyn wouldn't deliver this to me unless she was absolutely certain there was trouble. Varys would most likely be interested in seeing this,'_  he thought before turning back to the baker. "On second thought, could I get a bag of some candied plums?"

The baker's face lit up as he realized what the King meant. "Ahh, for the little Prince and Princess?" he suggested.

"Yes. They've got a bit of a sweet tooth."

"Of course, Your Grace."

Daveth waited patiently at the shop before the baker finally returned with a small bag of sweets and handed them over. The Young Stag paid the man and thanked him for his business before resuming his trip towards the Red Keep.

* * *

**At the Street of Steel…**

* * *

Bodrin had strolled through the streets of King's Landing, having made his slow but eventual return to the capital. He had taken some time during his stay at Riverrun, but even Bodrin knew that he wasn't as young as he used to be. He now had required a cane to keep him standing as he moved around. The old man glanced at the new King's Landing; Seven hells, a lot had changed while he was away.

But all Bodrin could think about was the bastard Gendry. Was he all right? Did he escape from his captors? He did not know. The more he strolled and glanced around through the market, the more he noticed men selling their wares. Nearby a blacksmith was sharpening a sword on a grinding wheel, another pulls a sword from the forge's fire before hammering it on his anvil.

All the sightseeing ended when Bodrin noticed a group of five Sparrows, wearing black robes and chains, harassing a market vendor. They were armed with clubs and rods. One throws someone aside, another flips a table over whilst the rest attack those who intervene.

"Leave me alone! Go away!" one merchant on the ground shouted, blood pouring from a gash due to a blow to his head.

"Stop it! Please, stop!"

"Help me! Help me!"

"Barbaric filth!" one of the Sparrows chastised. "There's a special place in the Seventh Hell for your kind."

The commotion draws the attention of some gold cloaks on a castle wall, though it'll take time for them to come all the way down and convene at the area. Bodrin moved as quickly as he was able, despite his cane, only to stop when he notices a rather familiar face.

"Hey!" one of the bystanders yelled. "Get away from that man!"

Bodrin took a closer look at the young man in question; tall and muscled, blue eyes and thick black hair shaved. Normally he'd be mistaken as another blacksmith, but… something about him seemed rather familiar; until Bodrin got much closer. He physically looked almost identical to Daveth.

"Gendry?" he exclaimed quietly in awe.

Gendry, last surviving bastard son of King Robert Baratheon, did not back down as the Sparrows suddenly become aware of his presence and immediately turned their sights towards him.

"Step back, boy! Intervening in the Sparrow's sacred duties is an offense to the Gods!" one hollered at him.

"Oh? So you all admit you do like picking on the old, weak and helpless because they can't fight back when ganged up on, hmm?" he challenged daringly still holding his hammer. "You I've been hammering an anvil these past 15 years. When I hit that steel, it sings. Are you gonna sing when I hit you?"

"Threatening servants of the Holy Faith? Seize him. This man has broken the laws of Gods and men."

"Bastard!"

"Sinful abomination!"

The Sparrows move to grab Gendry, but was met with immediate resistance. Gendry was surprisingly fast for his age and started bashing each of the assailants with his hammer. One, two, three, four strikes before quickly shifting his posture and doing the same to the other Sparrow; seeing his heroic actions caused a stir among the merchants in the marketplace, prompting them to join in to help subdue the Sparrows.

"Get 'em!" one of the vendors shouted.

"Think you can just waltz around our city and attack us? To the Seven Hells with you!" exclaimed another.

Recognizing the crowd's sudden surge of courage and overall rise in numbers, the Sparrows tried to flee before the vendors cut off their escape routes. Gendry swung his hammer upwards, smacking one of the Sparrows in the jaw before bringing it back down onto the back of his head—promptly sending him crashing to the ground.

"*huff!* *huff!* *huff!*" Gendry panted.

One of the elderly vendors that was assaulted earlier was assisted to his feet by fellow merchants and shakenly approached Gendry, gripping the boy's shoulder in pure joy.

"Oh, thank you! Thank you!" he said.

"Are you all right, old man?" Gendry asked examining his gash. "Someone get a healer for this man!"

On cue, several City Watch sentries had managed to descent a long flight of steps down the city ramparts and arrived to apprehend the bloodied and bruised Sparrows, each of the moaning and groaning over the horrible thrashing they had just received. As they were being dragged away, the gathering smallfolk looked to Gendry and ushered praises and thanks onto him. The young blacksmith embarrassingly rubbed the back of his head, not apparently used to being treated as a local hero.

"You've grown since the last time I saw you," Bodrin called out.

Gendry recognized that voice and turns around, chuckling at seeing the old man again. "Still refuse to give up on me, old man?" he jested.

"When have you ever seen me ever do that? There's still life in these old bones."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Who else like an armorer's apprentice or blacksmith would set up shop in the Street of Steel? Shops, taverns, brothels don't have that kind of appeal. Well, that and the increased number of gold cloaks patrolling the streets."

"I haven't been back here in four years. Not since the purge," Gendry reminisced. "Lot has changed since last time, either for better or for worse. With these blokes coming out of nowhere and running amok, I couldn't just sit on the sidelines."

"So I see," Bodrin noticed. "Beyond that, anyone gave you trouble?"

"Nope. Here I am arming the City Watch and the soldiers at the garrison. I never get a second look. Besides, I had my own reasons for coming back here."

"Don't be so sure. Safety is never a permanent state of affairs… given the situation we find ourselves in."

Gendry nodded. "And here I thought being the bastard of a dead King was somehow part of it."

Bodrin looked confused before realizing the youth's statement. "You… you know who your father is?" he asked.

"I do; learned that during my escape from that red woman's clutches at Dragonstone. Found out I have a half-brother and half-sister too."

A few onlookers somehow heard what Gendry was talking about and started to approach him – somehow uncertain as to what they just heard.

"What's your name, boy?" asked one of the vendors.

"It's Gendry," he said proudly. "I'm Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son."

One by one, each of the merchants and blacksmiths who intervened in apprehending the Sparrows looked at each other murmuring words. Bodrin felt as if the revelation was an unwise tactic on Gendry's part as almost none believed that any of Robert Baratheon's bastard children survived the purge initiated by Joffrey and his henchmen years ago.

"By the Gods," one uttered, "he looks just like him!"

Another chimed in. "I see it! He and King Daveth look almost identical."

"Well, facial features and overall physique yes, but the other half… I'm not so sure. Both of 'em got different mothers."

"Can't be… I thought all of King Robert's bastards were wiped out."

"Not all apparently."

Murmurs and gossiping spread through the Street of Steel, the commotion prompted Bodrin to move in and yank Gendry by the arm. Despite the youth's apparent confusion laid plain upon his face, Gendry was pulled aside by Bodrin into a nearby alley to have a private discussion.

"The Seven hells are you thinking?" Bodrin whispered in a scolding tone. "The King's got a lot on his mind with these Sparrows roaming about. Your brother… ahem, your  _half_ -brother doesn't need to undergo any more stress than he already has."

"I… I understand," said Gendry once the situation was explained to him.

"Don't worry. You'll get your chance to meet him in-person soon." He turned to see a small armed escort of Reach and Vale guards strolling through the street towards the Red Keep. "A gold rose on a green field, sigil of Higharden's House Tyrell; shower of pebbles on an orange field surrounded by runes, sigil of Runestone's House Royce. It looks like you'll be getting your chance at meeting your brother sooner rather than later."

"What do you recommend?"

Bodrin took a moment to explain the plan. "Here's how it'll go: Your name is Clovis, a smith from the downtown forges recommended by Tobho Mott to make routine delivery runs to the Red Keep. When the Oathkeeper sees you,  _do not_  bring up that you're the bastard of a dead King like you did in front of those back there… at least until the trouble with those Sparrows end. Listen to what I say, and you'll be fine."

"Understood," the youth sighed and rolled his eyes. "Don't you think I've been thinking about it every swing of the hammer? But don't expect me to play nice with the Lannisters. They're the family that killed my father, remember? And they tried to kill me."

"I understand that, but keep your cool at all times. Let's go."

Bodrin and Gendry both follow closely behind the escort with only a bag of tools and a satchel, swinging it over their heads.

"You should know that it's not just the Sparrows, Gendry, but also—"

"I've been getting ready ever since I learned the truth," he interrupted. "I never knew what for, but I've always known I'd know it when it comes."

Bodrin looked at him.  _'I suppose he's just like his brother in own way,'_  he theorized. While they moved closer to the gates of the Red Keep behind the escorts, he gazed at a delivery of armaments to the castle guards. "If the Sparrows do come here, you know how to use one of those swords?" he pointed.

"I don't know much about swinging swords, but this…" Gendry shook his head before unveiling a giant war hammer with a stag's head design on either side of the haft socket he himself crafted, " _this_  I know."

"Close enough, then."

* * *

**At the Dreadfort…**

* * *

Lord Roose Bolton was very displeased with his bastard son Ramsay. He and Ramsay both sat at the dining table while he sat at the head while a lady serves each of them drinks. He just stared at him and his visiting guest, Lord Harald of House Karstark. One of the Bolton scouts who hurried back to the Dreadfort from the Hornwood forest reported to what he just seen.

"I swear I saw it with my own eyes, my lord," he knelt.

"You're certain of that?" Roose demanded.

"Aye. Sansa Stark is back in the North, accompanied by Lord Manderly's men along with her personal bodyguards. I… I came up upon the bodies on my way here. There were too many of them."

"If Sansa is here, then that means a reckoning will indeed come," the Lord of the Dreadfort said calculatingly. "I'm disappointed, Ramsay. You played your games with Jeyne Poole by having her masquerade as Arya Stark. You played your games with my men. You played your games with the Oathkeeper and lied about it behind my back." He turned to Harald. "And what of you, Lord Karstark? You took a big risk by coming here to me like this."

"Does it matter now?" he retorted. "We know where Sansa Stark is going. Her brother still rules Winterfell."

"Ned Stark's son and heir."

Roose hummed and looked at his latest guest. "And you?" he asked. "The Umbers are a famously loyal house."

Standing at the opposite end of the dining table was Smalljon Umber, the Greatjon's son and heir. Although nowhere close to his father's size or stature, the Smalljon was a rather violent, loud and arrogant man at first glance; but more so he is cold and cunning, capable of unspeakable cruelty. It was no secret that the Smalljon has an unpleasant relationship with his father the Greatjon Umber.

"Famously loyal to the Starks," Harald pointed out.

"Your people share blood with the Starks too. You're both kin," Lord Karstark," Smalljon countered aggressively. "But yet here we both are. My, how times have changed indeed."

"You still didn't answer my question," Roose changed the subject.

"You're a real cunt, you know that?"

Ramsay chimed in. "My beloved father is—"

"You father is a cunt and we all know it. I would've killed my father had he not learned of my plans."

"You mean the attempted coup which forced you to flee Last Hearth with what few followers you had," Roose recognized. "That was rather hasty and foolhardy on your part. With the Greatjon conversing with his men, Robb Stark will likely learn what has happened."

"But what my bloody father failed to understand is that the bastard Jon Snow led an army of wildlings past the Wall. We Umbers are farther north than any of you fuckers. Wildlings come down, we're always the ones to fight them first. I like fighting wildlings, been going it all my life. But there are too many of them for us to beat back alone."

"And so you've come seeking help. How many of them are there?"

"My scouts report at least 17,000. They're still near Castle Black with Jon Snow and Stannis Baratheon."

"Who's Jon Snow?" asked Ramsay.

"Robb and Sansa Stark's bastard brother," Roose said.

"We could use this to our advantage, father. With enough men we could muster a stealthy infiltration of Winterfell, capture Sansa before anyone has a chance to—"

"Did you leave your senses when you came into this world? Abduct the Queen who happens to be a Stark? Such a treasonous statement," Roose retorted incredulously. "You'd not only unite every house in the North against us, but the entire south as well. Do you believe yourself a conqueror capable of facing a well-armed and provisional Baratheon army?"

"We need to help each other," Smalljon pointed out. "The colder it gets, the father south those goat fuckers will roam. Won't take them long to get here."

Ramsay had a 'so what?' look on his face and grinned wickedly. "Last I heard King Daveth Baratheon is stuck dealing with problems of his own. Religious fanatics are running rampart throughout the capital. Even if he does send reinforcements, they won't make it here in time – the snow is too heavy. We're 1,000 miles away and southerners have never sent any of their armies this far north. We know every inch of the terrain better than they ever will. And besides, we don't  _need_  as many allies in the North. With the Umbers and Karstarks beside us, we'll have half the North on our side if it comes to war. None could challenge us."

"The Starks lost my house the day Robb let the squid spawn whose family caused the deaths my father and brothers live. It's time for new blood in the North," Harald said bitterly.

Roose looks at Ramsay, Smalljon and Harald before getting up and standing in front of them. "If you acquire a reputation as a mad dog, then you'll be treated as a mad dog. Taken out and slaughtered for pig feed," he told them.

Before any could respond, Maester Wolkan enters the room and interrupts them.

"My lords, Lady Walda has given birth," he announced. "A boy. Red-cheeked and healthy."

"My congratulations, Lord Bolton," Harald said.

Ramsay is seen visibly shaken with the announcement of the birth of a trueborn brother; a bastard will never inherit their father's lands or titles and have no claims to the privileges of his house. He tried to hide it, but Ramsay was indeed growing increasingly enraged at the prospect of gaining the power and respect as a Bolton slipping further away from his grasp.

Even so, he took a reluctant step forward and hugs his father. "Congratulations, father," Ramsay forced himself to talk. "I look forward to meeting my new brother."

"You'll always be my firstborn," Roose reassured calmly, putting his hand on Ramsay's shoulder and looked him in the eye.

"Thank you for saying that. It means a great deal to me."

Ramsay actually seemed moved by his father's words. Any act of warmth and touching affection was quickly dispelled when Ramsay unsheathed a hidden dagger from his sleeve and stabs his father in the chest three times.

***SHLUK!***

"Nugh!"

Roose's eyes widened in shock – his eyes still glued to Ramsay – and slowly slumped to the ground, holding his one hand over his gushing wound while struggling to prop himself up – but to no avail as he finally succumbed to his wounds and dies not long afterwards. Harald and Smalljon looked indifferent; Maester Wolkan, however, looked terrified.

"Whoo! Now  _that_  felt great!" Ramsay boasted with insanity and shined an insane smile. "Nowhere near as satisfying with Domeric, but still what a rush it was. Fucker Domeric had everything I wanted! So I had him poisoned so I could be heir to House Bolton! No one else is  _ever_ gonna take it from me." He turns to the maester. "Maester Wolkan, send ravens to all the Northern houses. Roose Bolton is dead. Poisoned by the Starks."

He doesn't respond.

" _How_  did he die?" he repeats.

"P-poisoned by the… by the Starks," Wolkan reluctantly answered in fear.

"You're speaking to the new Lord of the Dreadfort! It's disrespectful when you don't say 'my lord'."

"F-forgive me, my lord."

"Lord Bolton."

"L-Lord Bolton."

"Send for Lady Walda and the baby."

"But she's resting, my lord—"

Ramsay glares threateningly at Wolkan, prompting the maester to run out of the room in a hurry. Looking down at his father's dead body, Ramsay gave the corpse a hard kick before exiting the main hall and out onto the courtyard.

* * *

**Outside…**

* * *

Having assumed full control of the Dreadfort and its surrounding territories, Ramsay stood in the courtyard waiting for his stepmother Walda and her newborn baby boy. Eventually, the fat woman arrives with a bundle in her arms. Ramsay turned and looked at her and put up a feigned smile.

"There he is," referring to his half-brother.

Walda smiled wearily. "Isn't he beautiful?" she shows him her son.

Ramsay again feigned interest and care. "May I hold him?" he asked, holding out his arms.

"Of course."

Gently transferring her son to Ramsay, Walda watched as her stepson held the sleeping infant. Although the Bolton babe slept, Ramsay knew he had their father's pale eyes.

"Are you tired, mother?"

"Only… only a little, Ramsay," she answered.

"Hello, little brother. It's me, Ramsay. I'm your big brother."

Walda felt anxiety washing over her at the thought of being separated from her firstborn child. She stretched her arms out, hoping Ramsay would return him to her – to her surprise he actually complied.

"Lord Bolton sent for us. Have you seen him?" she asked.

_'Fat bitch, if only you'd been smarter than that,'_  he grimaced. "Of course. Follow me, mother."

Ramsay leads Walda towards the kennels and enters; opening the gate so she would enter first, Ramsay was not too far behind her. The dogs inside are awakened by the creaking sound of the hinges and begin barking quite loudly.

Walda sensed something was wrong. "Where is Lord Bolton?" she asked, suddenly starting to get worried.

"*Waah! Waah!*" the baby starts crying.

"Shh. It's all right. Come on, shh."

In a fluid motion, Ramsay does not answer and locks it behind him. As Walda tries to soothe the baby, Ramsay opens the door of a kennel and grins wickedly.

"It's cold out here, Ramsay," she calls out. "I need to feed the baby." Walda sees him opening the doors of all the kennels one by one. "Wait, Ramsay where is your father? Ramsay? Where is Lord Bolton?" she calls out to him again.

Ramsay turns around and faces his stepmother. "I  _am_  Lord Bolton, you fat cow.  _I_  rule the Dreadfort now," he says with an evil smirk.

Now suddenly feeling fear and panic settling in, Walda backs away until she feels cold iron bars against her back. Realizing she was trapped in the kennels with Ramsay and four vicious hounds, Walda falls to her knees.

"Ramsay. Ramsay, please," she pleads for mercy. "I'll leave the North. I'll go back to the Riverlands. Please. Ramsay, he's your brother."

"I prefer being an only child," was his only reply.

Giving a loud, quick whistle Ramsay set his hounds loose and they begin converging to attack Walda and her baby. As Walda screams, Ramsay watches with delight as his hounds begin slowly tearing her and the baby to shreds. Feeling his ambitions aim even higher and burning even brighter, Ramsay continued watching the gruesome scene.

"This will be a day long remembered," he vowed. "House Bolton is mine! The Dreadfort is mine. And soon the whole North will be mine!  _I_  will rule it all… as the Red King."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daveth's meeting with the Most Devout, he obviously has a likely close ally within the ruling council of clergy in the Seven of the Faith. Bodrin and Gendry both return to face down the Sparrows and will likely play a greater role in how it'll all end. As for the Boltons, Ramsay makes his move and boldly proclaims himself a Bolton and his ambitions at seizing control of the North away from House Stark. Harald Karstark defects to Ramsay and Smalljon Umber attempted a failed coup d'état against his father. Think how all of this will plan out? Thoughts? Let me know.


	111. Visions, Assassins and Crows

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

Deep within a cave in the frozen lands far beyond the Wall, beneath a Great Weirwood Tree, Bran Stark remained in the middle of his training as a warg and a greenseer under the tutelage of the Three-Eyed Raven himself. The journey to make it to the Three-Eyed Raven's cave was not a pleasant one; one the way with Hodor, Summer, Meera and Jojen Reed, a group of wights attacked them. And although they were eventually repelled by the last of the Children of the Forest, Jojen unfortunately did not survive the encounter. That was almost a year ago.

Now, Bran remained motionless on the ground as his eyes glaze over white. In a vision, he stood with the Three-Eyed Raven somewhere in the distant past. They stood near the mouth of the River Torentine, downriver from Blackmont and the High Hermitage.

"This is Starfall," Bran referred to his surroundings. "House Dayne lives here. This is where the Sword of the Morning hails from."

"As did every Dayne who held the title before they themselves did," the old man reminded.

"It's beautiful here."

The Three-Eyed Raven nodded. "It is beautiful beneath the sea, but if you stay too long, you'll drown."

_"Do you really have to go?"_  a feminine voice asked.

Bran glanced at one of Starfall's side entrances where a tall young woman with long dark hair and violet eyes renowned for her great beauty emerging from the shadows. She stood in front of a Dornishmen wearing special Targaryen silverite armor bearing the Targaryen dragon on his breastplate and intricate suits of black scales.

_"I must. Though I bear no love for the King for mistreating my niece and her children, for when Dorne swears an oath – we keep them,"_  he said almost somewhat hesitant.  _"Aerys didn't need to threaten our countrymen to ensure our loyalty. But he knows we'd never take up arms our beloved Princess and will fight for whatever side Elia was on."_

_"When do you leave?"_

_"A fortnight, my beloved Ashara. My brother Doran has agreed to send 10,000 men to accompany me, Ser Barristan and Prince Rhaegar."_

_"And my brother, Lewyn?"_  she spoke.  _"Having the Sword of the Morning with you at the Trident could end the war in one swift stroke."_

Leywn nodded, though he somewhat scowled.  _"I agree, but… Rhaegar reassigned Ser Arthur and Lord Commander Hightower elsewhere. Where he sent them, I do not know. Nor do I know why he did what he did, but once the rebels are defeated and Robert Baratheon slain, hopefully we'll get some answers. My niece deserves the right to know why Rhaegar chose to abscond with Lyanna Stark in the first place."_

_"Unbelievable. Shameful, disgraceful. Marriage is a sacred oath, one to be cherished – not be discarded on a whim."_

_"Well, we'll find out soon enough."_

Bran watched as Ashara Dayne, sister to the Sword of the Morning Ser Arthur Dayne, embraced Prince Leywn Martell of the Kingsguard before unveiling a small girl behind her. She looked exactly like her mother; none of her father's features so far and couldn't have been more than at least five years old.

_"Daddy?"_  she piped up.

Leywn knelt down to meet her at eye-level.  _"Be a good girl for your mother while I'm gone now, all right Ariyana?"_  he asked.

Ashara felt as if this might be the last time the father of her only child would be speaking to each other like this. The thought made her heart ache.

_"Come home soon?"_  Ariyana asked.

_"Don't worry, my little ray of sunshine. Your father will be back before you know it,"_  Lewyn reassured his daughter, giving her a small pendant. He looked up at his paramour.  _"Ashara, if something were to ever happen to me at the Trident – take Ariyana to my nephew in Sunspear."_

_"Lewyn—!"_  Ashara protested.

_"Promise me, love. Should the worst come to pass, Ariyana must be taken to safety at Sunspear. Retain her family name – House Dayne must live on. Please."_

Ashara looked more distraught than usual, but nodded reluctantly.  _"I… I promise. Say goodbye to your father, sweetheart."_

_"Bye, daddy."_

Believing that was more than enough for the day, the Three-Eyed Raven touches Bran's shoulder and releases him from the vision. The Stark cripple gasps, letting go of the roots as the white fades from his eyes. A Child of the Forest sits nearby in the cave, staring at him as Bran propped himself up onto his wrists as both the old man and Child of the Forest exchange a glance with each other while Bran turns to Hodor, who is sitting with his back against a wall picking at his fingers.

"Wylis," he calls out.

"Hodor?" was his simple respond.

"Yes, yes but why do you keep saying that? I saw you as a boy yesterday. You talked. Why can't you tell me what happened back then? What made you keep—?"

"Hodor."

Bran sighed, knowing his was going nowhere. "Where's Meera?" he asked.

"Hodor," he points towards the outskirts of the cave.

Meera was sitting in the snow at the base of the Great Weirwood Tree, staring out in the tundra. She was still grieving for her younger brother's death and hadn't moved from her spot until Bran crawled his way over.

"Meera, it's not safe outside the cave," he tells her.

"It's not safe anywhere, Bran," she counters. "The Three-Eyed Raven told Jojen that there's a war coming. And we're going to fight it in there."

She stood and turned away. Hodor approached and picked Bran up to carry him back inside to continue his training. Meera had no tears left to cry; all she felt was a cold bitterness towards the wights who killed her brother. Summer was curled up nearby standing guard with a Child of the Forest who was watching Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven stood motionless once more among some stones and frozen shrubbery as their eyes turned white again.

"Brandon Stark needs you," the Child tells Meera.

"For what?" she demands. "I sit in there and I watch him have his visions and nothing ever happens."

"He isn't going to stay there forever. And out there he needs you."

Meera glanced at her feet. "I know…"

* * *

**In Braavos…**

* * *

"What's your name?" the Waif asks, staff in hand.

Across the Narrow Sea in one of Essos' city-states, Braavos, Arya Stark was having a very hard time during her training as a Faceless Man. When she arrived at the House of Black and White with Jaqen, Arya was insistent on learning – only for the Faceless Man to accuse her of only wanting to serve herself. His acolyte, the Waif, would repeatedly accost her and hit her when she gave the expected response of 'no one.' Demanding to play the game of faces, the Waif told her again and again she already tried but failed miserably at being unable to lie convincingly.

Moments earlier, Arya had again broken the rules when she stole one of the faces off the Hall of Faces to stroll around the common area. During her stroll, Arya had witnessed a disgruntled drunken man attempt to rape a young woman. Disguised as a little girl, Arya crept close enough without either of them noticing her approach. Digging her fingers into the skin around her jawline which seems loose, she pulled her disguise over her head and leapt up at him and stabbed him in each eye with an oyster knife before slitting his throat.

When she returned, however, Arya learned Jaqen and the Waif were incredibly displeased with her actions.

**ooOoo**

> _"A girl has taken a life. The wrong life,"_  Jaqen says disappointedly.
> 
> _"I was right about her,"_  the Waif points out.
> 
> _"You were."_
> 
> Arya tried to stand her ground, but Jaqen and the Waif were too fast as they apprehended her, grabbing her wrist and clamping her into a double arm bar with a strength belied by the Waif's size. The more she struggled, the more Arya realized she couldn't move. She was utterly helpless and at their mercy; Arya notices Jaqen removing a vial from his robes and uncaps it.
> 
> _"That man's life was not yours to take. A girl stole from the Many-Faced God. Now a debt is owed. Only death can pay for life!"_
> 
> Arya believed the vial of poison was meant for her and struggled against the Waif's grip, but to her surprise Jaqen drank the entire vial himself and fell to the floor.
> 
> _"No!"_  she cried out.  _"Don't die! Don't die!"_
> 
> _"Why are you crying?"_  asked the Waif.
> 
> _"He was my friend!"_
> 
> _"No he wasn't. Didn't you listen to him? He was no one."_
> 
> When Arya turns, the Waif is no longer the Waif but Jaqen; pulling the face over his head, he looked completely unharmed. Arya is both relieved and confused.
> 
> _"But… if you're… Then who's this?"_  Arya asks, quickly pulling the mask off 'Jaqen' and tosses it away, revealing another unfamiliar face.
> 
> _"No one at all,"_  Jaqen repeats.  _"Just as a girl should have been before she took a face from the hall. The Faces are for No One. You are still someone. And to someone, the Faces are as good as poison."_
> 
> Trapped in a seemingly endless loop, Arya pulls off another face, another face, and another face before the final face she sees is her own—lying there, glassy-eyed. And as Arya looks into her own dead eyes, her sight begins to grow hazy before everything goes black.
> 
> _"What's happening? I can't see!"_  Arya shouts in terror.  _"What's happening?!"_

**ooOoo**

Without the use of her eyesight, Arya shook and was forced to rely on her hearing to track the Waif's movements. She rushed to her feet and gripped her staff but had no idea where the Waif was before being smacked across the face.

***WHACK!***

Arya stumbled and spat blood from her mouth before approaching the sound of the Waif's voice, who had already stealthily moved around her right flank.

"What's your name?" she repeats.

"No one," Arya answers.

"I don't believe that.  _You_  don't believe that."

Arya tightly grips her staff and swings at the Waif, but misses and is hit in the side. She swings again, but misses again. The Waif hits Arya on the other side, who rushes towards her and trips on some steps, falling to the ground. She grabs her staff and stands back up. After three more hits from the Waif, Arya stands up and swings again and misses for a third time. The Waif hits her in the face, knocking her to the ground again. Arya begins panting heavily as she returns to her feet, screams, and swings her staff around her many times—unaware that the Waif has disappeared. The Faceless Man, taking on the visage of Jaqen H'ghar, catches Arya's staff mid-swing.

"Who are you?" Jaqen asks.

"No one," Arya replies.

"If a girl says her name, a man will let her sleep under a roof tonight."

"A girl has no name."

"If a girl says her name, a man will feed her tonight."

"A girl has no name."

"If a girl says her name, a man will give her eyes back."

"A girl has no name."

Jaqen looks pleased and releases her staff. Arya turns around and walks to her beggar basked, but is stopped halfway.

"Leave it," the Faceless Man tells her. "A girl is not a beggar anymore."

Out of options, Arya followed Jaqen and the Waif back to the House of Black and White. Once inside, Arya was forced to endure harsh training despite her blindness. Sparring with each other on a raised platform, the Waif scrapes her staff around the floor and pushes the end of it against Arya's head. The more exercises they did, the more Other times, both Arya and the Waif sit on the ground across from each other.

"Who are you?" the Waif repeats her question once more.

"No one," Arya answers.

***WHACK!***

After getting hit in the side, Arya shifted her posture to a more calm and composed, yet detached expression.

"Who were you before you came here?"

"Arya Stark."

"Tell me about Arya Stark's family."

"Her father was Eddard Stark. Her mother is Catelyn Stark. She had one sister, Sansa, and four brothers—"

***WHACK!***

" _Three_  brothers," she corrects herself. "Robb, Bran, Rickon. And a half-brother, Jon."

"And where are they now?"

"Sansa is still Queen Consort of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. Robb remains being Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Jon left to join the Night's Watch when a girl was younger. The others may be dead for all a girl knows."

"Tell me about the Oathkeeper."

"Arya Stark was not sure what to make of Daveth Baratheon. He eluded her."

***WHACK!***

"He protected a girl's sister. She loved him, and he in turn grew to love her."

"Why did he elude her?"

"She thought him as anti-social; cold, uncaring."

"She sounds confused."

"Yes, she was. Perhaps a part of her still is."

The Waif walks away, but stops when Arya begins to stand up and hold her staff out at her. The two began exchanging blows again, but Arya knocks back the Waif. Jaqen looks on as he watches Arya show rapid signs of improvement. The Waif returns with a heavy blow, but Arya blocks it. Eventually, Jaqen brings Arya to a well in the center of the room and offers her a cup of water from the well.

"If a girl tells me her name, I will give her eyes back," he promises.

"A girl has no name," Arya answers.

Satisfied with her progress, Jaqen transfers the cup to Arya – who seems hesitant to drink it. The Faceless Man sensed this.

"If a girl is truly no one, she has nothing to fear."

Inhaling and exhaling, Arya steadily drinks the water and closes her eyes. Opening them slowly, it is revealed that the blindness has left Arya's eyes and once again shined a dark brown hue.

"Who are you?" asks Jaqen.

"No one," Arya repeats herself.

* * *

**At Castle Black…**

* * *

Today was the day of reckoning for the mutineers who conspired and murdered the now-resurrected Jon Snow. Observing from the balcony overlooking the courtyard, Stannis and Melisandre watched closely while Mance, Tormund, Davos and the Night's Watch stood in attendance on the ground. Ser Alliser, Yarwyck, Bown and Olly were all rounded up on a platform with their hands tied and had nooses wrapped tightly around their necks for the inevitable execution. Accompanying Jon were Eddison and Grenn, who pushed past the attendants until Jon stepped onto the platform and stared at them.

"If you have any last words, now is the time," he states.

"You shouldn't be alive," protested Bowen. "It's not right."

Jon's expression was hard and cold. "Neither was  _killing me_." He replied before looking at Yarwick.

"My mother's still living at White Harbor," the First Builder mentions. "Could you write her? Tell her I died fighting the wildlings."

Jon did not reply and moved to First Ranger Alliser Thorne.

"I had a choice, Lord Commander," he said simply. "Betray you or betray the Night's Watch. You brought an army of wildlings into our lands. An army of murderers and raiders. If I had to do it all over knowing where I'd end up, I pray I'd make the right choice again."

"I'm sure you would, Ser Alliser."

The First Ranger nodded and resigned himself to his fate. "I fought, I lost. Now I rest. But you, Lord Snow, you'll be fighting their battles forever."

Stannis and Selyse watched Jon move to Olly; after a moment of silence from Jon, the boy stares back at him, his face filled with seething hatred and unwavering in his actions. Jon was deeply disappointed with the boy.

_'He's younger than Bran. Why did you have to force me to do this, Olly?'_  he thought sadly.

***SHIIIIING!***

Jon turned away from the mutineers and walked towards the rope holding their nooses in place, drawing the Valyrian steel sword Longclaw from its sheath. The air was filled with a tense silence before anyone in attendance took a breath—though Jon's was heavy and loud.

_"The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword,"_  Eddard's voice ran through his head.

Once again being forced to steel himself, Jon again acted with his father's law of accordance and swings Longclaw back behind him before bringing it down with a rapid slash, personally cutting the trapdoor rope. The board under Alliser, Bowen, Yarwyck and Olly fell from under them and their bodies dropped, snapping their necks as they choked and gagged on their final breaths in strangulation before their movements ceased. When Jon exhaled and looked up at the swinging corpses, their faces turned blue and bloated – but it was Olly's face that haunted him the most.

Stannis nodded his head in approval and marched down the balcony with his men. "You did the right thing, Lord Commander," he tells Jon.

"Our way is the old way, Lord Stannis. My father told me that the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword himself, not let someone else do it for him."

"Hmm. Good man, your father. Stubborn, but an honorable one. What will you do now?"

Jon shook his head. "What will you do now?" he changed the subject.

Stannis looked at him. "My troops and I are leaving Castle Black immediately. This snow could turn heavy at any moment, and now that winter's here it'll get worse with that storm coming our way. 'Winter is coming.' Those aren't just Stark words, it's a fact. Who can say how many years this winter will last. From her on, we go forward and only forward. Remember that, Jon Snow."

"I understand. Safe journeys, my lord."

"Hmm."

Stannis, Selyse, Shireen and their personal guards along with those who accompanied their liege lord to the Wall on a long march down south. The North was still by far the largest of the Seven Kingdoms and the weather was bound to be treacherous as the southern host resumes its march.

"We should burn the bodies," Eddison pointed out.

Grenn nodded. "We've seen what happens when someone dies this far north; can't risk that ever happening again. Not like the Fist of the First Men or Hardhome."

" _You_  should burn them," Jon said removing his cloak.

Eddison and Grenn looked at Jon rather stunned as he handed his cloak over to the former.

"Wear it, burn it, do whatever you want. You have Castle Black," he continued and passed through the Night's Watch brothers and Free Folk. "My watch is ended."

Mance knew something was up and motioned for Eddison, Grenn and Tormund to follow. They pursued him up the stairs and into Jon's room to find him backing a bag of his belongings. Longclaw is lying on a table.

"Where you gonna go?" Eddison asked.

"Home," Jon answered.

"And what will you do once you return to Winterfell, Jon Snow?" Mance implored. "You were with us at the Fist of the First Men and Hardhome. You saw what's out there like the rest of us, even during your time with the Free Folk. We all know the White Walkers are the real threat here. And you want to just give up and run away?"

"I'm not running," he denied. "I did everything I could. You know that."

"You swore a vow, Jon. We all did," Grenn insisted.

Jon slammed his bag down in annoyance. "Aye, I pledged my life to the Night's Watch. I gave my life."

"For all nights to come."

"They killed me, Grenn! My own brothers! You want me to stay here after that?"

Nothing mattered to Jon anymore, none of it did. Freed from his vows, he longed to return to Winterfell. He wanted to go home, but he knew that there was still some truth in what Mance and Eddison said. The Night King, the White Walkers, the Army of the Dead… all of it was real. With the last Free Folk settlement wiped out, it would only be a matter of time before the undead marched south towards the Wall.

"I never should have left Winterfell," Jon sighed.

Mance put a hand on his shoulder. "If you hadn't, you'd end up being like the other southerners, Jon Snow. Now I can't tell you what to do, you're a young man, baby crow. But you can't escape the undeniable truth. I lost almost all my people out there; been that way for years. You want to know how many times the Free Folk got our asses handed to us?"

"Piss on that!" Tormund belched. "We got knocked down, but the Free Folk got back up and kept on movin'. Sure we've got ourselves a bit of fertile farmland with some abandoned mills south of the Wall, but even then we Free Folk know we'll never be safe for long. So like it or not, Jon Snow, where you go we go."

Jon blinked. "Wha…?"

"You think being King-Beyond-the-Wall is a special title given to one of the Free Folk? No, we follow whoever earns our respect," Mance explained. "17,000, Jon Snow. That's how many of us are left. We might not exist anymore when all is said and done if the Night King comes here. Like you said, if we're gonna beat them then we need to stand together."

"The crows killed you because you spoke for the Free Folk when no other southerners would. You died for us. And if we're not willing to do the same for you, we're cowards. And if that's what we are, we deserve to be the last of the Free Folk."

"We can't defend the North from the White Walkers and the south from those who want to kill us. So if you're going to Winterfell, we're going with you."

"What about the others?" Jon asked.

Mance smirked. "Oh no need to worry about them; every man, woman and child know the stakes. We know the risks, but we jumped on board anyway."

Jon contemplated their words before picking up his bags and Longclaw once more. Nodding his head, Jon put on a new Northmen wolf's cloak around his leather attire. The direwolf sigil of House Stark is pressed into the leather straps—a gift from the maids before his departure years ago. A bit old and worn, but it still fit him.

"Try not to knock down that new cloak while I'm gone, you two," Jon said to Eddison and Grenn.

Knowing this was actually might indeed the last time they were going to see him, Eddison and Grenn both hugged Jon and thanked him for his leadership and contribution to the Night's Watch.

"Good luck out there," Eddison said.

"We'll never forget you, Jon," Grenn agreed.

All of them returned to the courtyard where they saw dozens of wildlings and Wun Wun standing the tallest among them. The Night's Watch brothers stood aside as Jon, Mance and Tormund prepared to leave Castle Black behind them. Snow looked up at Wun Wun who glanced down at him.

"Snow," the giant grunted.

Jon smiled and mounted his horse, accompanied by Tormund and Mance before riding off. Eddison and Grenn watched Jon leave before the latter left to train some of the new recruits in martial combat. A man of the Night's Watch approaches Eddison who still watched Jon and the wildlings leave.

"Should we close the gate, Lord Commander?" he asked.

Eddison shook his head. "I'm not the Lord Comman— oh, you sneaky son of a bitch, Jon." He notices more men gathering around him. "Yeah, ahem, right. Close the bloody gate."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This cameo chapter I wanted to briefly focus primarily on the three Starks and what occurred in the timeskip. It was long overdue that we get to see Bran Stark back in the picture and the identity of Ariyana Dayne's father has finally been revealed. What do you guys think? Bran is still training under the Three-Eyed Raven, Arya still trains in Braavos to be a Faceless Man and Jon Snow leaves Castle Black and the Night's Watch behind him to go back to Winterfell. Think any of this would play a role in the battle that is to come? Thoughts? Let me know.


	112. Sparrows Strike, the Dragon Rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sparrows make the first move; Daenerys takes control of the Dothraki.

**In the Red Keep…**

* * *

After some time of investigating and questioning officials, Daveth returned to the Red Keep to convey upon the Small Council. He had one of the City Watch recruits send word to his councilors of his findings and not too long ago noticed an escort from both the Reach and Vale arriving at the gates. Once he entered the council chambers, the Young Stag noticed all of them were in attendance—in addition to Lady Olenna Tyrell with her entourage along and Lord Yohn Royce with his.

"Ah, beloved nephew," Tyrion called out.

"Daddy!" both twins exclaimed and rushed to grip his legs.

Daveth looked down at Lyonel and Cassana; both twins eagerly looked up at him and noticed a small bag in his hands. He bent down to one knee to meet them at eye-level.

"Here. Some sweets your father was able to pick up on the way back," he told them as he handed them each their fair share of candied plums.

"Yay!"

"All right. Run along with grandma now, pups. Your father's got some things to take care of. I'll come tuck you in tonight. Be good now, yes?"

"Okie!"

Lyonel and Cassana ran off to find their grandmother Catelyn – each held bags of candies in their little hands. Daveth watched as his son and daughter left the council chambers, finally able to redirect his attention towards serious matters at hand.

"They really seem to like you," Tyrion mentioned.

Daveth shook his head. "They're just 2 years old, uncle. If either Lyonel or Cassana are remarkable at that age, then that is their mother's doing – not mine."

"And you believe if you do anything well by them it would be to inflict as little damage as possible?" Olenna prodded. "I have travelled a long way after I was told that my presence was needed."

"Lord Tyrell," the Young Stag turned to Mace, "did you ask her here?" he asked.

"Well, Your Grace, you see I—"

Olenna interrupted him. "I was invited at the behest of the King's Hand, your uncle Lord Tyrion, to help resolve several troublesome issues… such as the High Sparrow causing trouble for Baratheons, Lannisters  _and_  Tyrells."

"Then I take it you've known about his recent breakout from his confinement?"

"Although the Reach is closer to King's Landing, the rest of us in the Vale of Arryn wouldn't sit idle while recent events unfolded before our eyes again," Yohn said. "Whatever aid House Arryn might provide to the crown is at your disposal, Your Grace."

"Thank you, Lord Royce. Lady Olenna. Now, let's get down to it. We've got fanatics running throughout the city. Commander Duran has increased the City Watch patrols, the Red Keep's guards have been informed of the situation and remain on the constant."

"And should one try to infiltrate?" the Lord of Runestone asked.

"We're currently working on a solution, but the Sparrows are a clever if not deceptive bunch. Soldier and law enforcement alike are being checked thoroughly in the hope of ferreting out any more spies in their ranks." He turned to Varys. "Lord Varys, have your little birds picked up any trails yet?"

Varys shook his head. "None yet, Your Grace. If any of the Sparrows leave a trail, my little birds will follow them."

"Good; best to rout them out before they cause any more damage… now that the High Septon's been ousted."

"Have you learned anything from the Most Devout?" Trystane asked.

"Nothing that could be beneficial, unfortunately," the Young Stag shook his head. "Until a new High Septon is chosen, the Most Devout remains in a deadlock; unable to do anything. For now it seems only Septa Rosyn and Septon Luceon are our only allies in the Faith of the Seven's leadership, yet…"

"What?"

"There was one who just rubbed me the wrong way."

"Think one of them could be involved?"

"Until we have proof or any leads to follow, all we have are theories and possible suspects. But don't worry about that part. Varys and I will work to resolve that. Our spy networks can coordinate better without both sides stepping on each other's toes."

Varys nodded.

"If I may," Yohn suggested. "While we strategize on our next course of action, I could have some of my own escorts keep close tabs on certain parties in the city."

"Who do you have in mind?" he asked.

Daveth felt a close hand on his shoulder. Turning his head, the Young Stag was slightly taken aback by a young woman staring at him – smiling almost eagerly. She was a short, fleshy and extremely buxom woman, broad of hip, thick of waist with a small mouth, a pair of lively brown eyes and brown curly hair framed round red cheeks. Daveth roughly estimated she was about roughly two years older than him.

"Myranda Royce, my cousin's daughter, has opted to come with me from the Gates of the Moon," the Lord of Runestone introduced her. "She might be a bit… ahem, frolicsome and play the merry fool… but underneath she's shrewder than her father, my brother Nestor. I'm certain she'll be of great assistance in the investigation."

Daveth cleared his throat. "Welcome to King's Landing, Lady Myranda," he greeted politely.

"It is a great honor to finally meet you in person, Your Grace," Myranda curtsied. "My friend Mya Stone has told me many things about you."

_'But you'll get no secrets from me,'_  he told himself. "And where is your… friend, my lady?"

"She's already on the streets. 'Hitting the ground running,' was what she said. Perhaps once we hear more of these horrible Sparrows plaguing these poor people, maybe we could present our findings to you personally?"

The Young Stag raised an eyebrow, feeling a little bit apprehensive. "So long as you keep your eyes peeled and ensure that you're not being shadowed, then that's fine."

"Oh, that would be great. Mya's been dying to meet you."

"A baseborn girl should not be paraded around His Grace at court," Pycelle chastised. "Such an act would bring him disgrace and scandal."

Myranda snorted. "Yet such disgrace and scandal has already befallen upon a man of your stature several years ago when you sold out His Grace when he arranged his only sister's marriage to the Prince of Dorne's son and heir despite swearing a solemn vow not to tell anyone of the sort." She gave a sigh. "Is that not the truth, Grand Maester?"

While Pycelle and a few councilors sputtered, Daveth appeared quite impressed.

"What of the other Tyrells? Tyrion changed the subject. "Ser Loras and Princess Consort Margaery?"

"Margaery is in the gardens with Tommen," Mace said, "Loras is sparring in the courtyard. Why?"

Before any could say anything, a royal steward entered the room.

"Pardon the interruption, my lords. Your Grace," he lowered his head. "But the guards have caught an intruder trying to sneak into the castle. We have him in custody if you wish to question him yourself."

Daveth, Tyrion, Olenna and Yohn looked at each other before the Young Stag turned back to the steward.

"Bring him in," he ordered.

The royal steward nodded and motioned for two guards—Baratheon and Lannister—to bring in a chained Sparrow before the council. Roughly throwing the captured intruder to the ground, Daveth recognized the uniform as rough-spun robes of dyed black wool fastened around the waist by chains.

"How did he get in here?" asked Randyll.

The prisoner steadily lifted his head up. "How I did was irrelevant, my lords. Why is purely a detrimental to our mandate from the Gods themselves."

Daveth rolled his eyes. "Again with spouting such nonsense," he remarked in slight annoyance. "You Sparrows really do enjoy poking and prodding at me trying to get me to snap, don't you?"

"A poor assumption on your part if you think our holy movement acts based off our own amusements, Oathkeeper. No. No, we're all part of something greater than ourselves. The High Sparrow will show the people of this city the light of the Mother's love and punish the wicked."

"Cut to the chase, Sparrow. What are you really after?"

"You harbor a sinner, you harbor abominations… The world must be cleansed of them."

In that instant, Daveth felt as if the world simply faded in a pit of blackness when he heard that. He hadn't had a moment to recognize him curling his fits into a tight ball; perceived at the insult or threat, the Young Stag's thoughts turned to not one but two individuals that came to mind. But it wasn't that, Daveth felt as if it were all just…

"A distraction," he gasped.

The Sparrow gave a rather calm, chilling smile – almost smug. Olenna and Mace Tyrell both seemed to catch onto this and quickly rose from their seats.

"Loras," Mace sputtered.

"Your son reeks of sin," the Sparrow spat. "The others will be on him soon. The Father will judge him—"

Before he could gloat even further, the guards smacked him hard on the back of the head – rendering him unconscious.

"Clap him in irons and throw him into the black cells," Daveth ordered. "Lord Tyrell, have your guards find Ser Loras before the Sparrows do. Trystane, come with me. I'll need you to help me find Myrcella and Tommen."

Not hesitating, the Dornish Master of Laws sprang from his seat and ran out of the Small Council chambers as the guards dragged the Sparrow off to the dungeons; those who remained uttered words of confusion before gathering their wits and immediately sprang into action when it became known the Sparrows initiated a diversionary tactic to attack not only the nobility but the royal House Baratheon of King's Landing.

In the darkest corner of the Young Stag's mind, Daveth felt a tiny flame beginning to grow—threatening to grow into a blazing ember. Passing a nearby hallway, he managed to pick up his father's war hammer and strapped it around his back.

_'I swear if those Sparrows lay so much as a finger on Myrcella or Tommen, I'll kill them all… Push me too hard and they'll learn the hard way how far the depth of my fury extends.'_

* * *

**Somewhere in the courtyard…**

* * *

Ser Loras Tyrell had been sparring against another man, clashing practice swords with one another as the spectators around him cheered and applauded. From what it seems, the Knight of the Flowers had been improving his fighting style ever since his defeat at the Battle of the Blackwater years ago. Sure the scar across his face had faded, but Loras remained as formidable as ever.

Loras had studied Daveth's moves closely—the distant memory of that battle forever engrained in his memory. Raising his right arm upwards to deflect and parry, Loras knocked his opponent to the ground. He removed his helmet, sweaty and exhausted from the sparring. Taking the time to absorb the round of applause he was receiving, Loras hands his sword to another man who hands him a drink.

As he took a sip, he felt something was wrong. A great number of Sparrows, all armed, walk down and up a dozen stairwells on all sides before Loras suddenly becomes aware of their presence.

"Seize him," one of the Sparrows ordered.

Loras reached to grab a nearby sword, but the Sparrows proved more quickly and intimidated the spectators into submission as dozens of them roughly grabbed the heir to Highgarden.

"Ngah! Get your hands off of me!" he yelled, offering fierce resistance.

Surrounded on all sides, one of the Sparrows high-ranking leaders, pushed his way past his holy brothers-in-arms and stared directly at their sought out target.

"Ser Loras of House Tyrell, you have broken the laws of Gods and men," he informs him.

Loras eyes him up and down. "Unhand me this instant! Who do you think he are?" he demands as he grunted and struggles.

He leans in close to his face. "Justice," he replies. "Take him to the High Sparrow. Our leader will judge him before the Father. Our benefactor will ensure our mission is sanctioned whether the crown approves or not."

_'Benefactor? They've got someone backing them?'_  the Knight of the Flowers thought to himself.

Not determined to be taken without a fight, Loras throws himself at the Sparrows—hurling his arms against the Sparrows restraining him, kicking others as hard as he could whenever they got too close. Wielding clubs and robs, the Sparrows took turns attacking Loras.

***BAM!***

***WHACK!***

Blow after blow, Loras grunted and shouted yet still resisted and stood his ground while the Sparrows found it a more difficult time hauling him away. As they neared a side entrance they used to sneak in while one of their own distracts the main leaders, one of them is spotted by team of guards.

"There they are!" one of them points at the Sparrows.

"Stop them! Don't let them get away!"

One by one, the guards rushed down the stairwells and charged at the Sparrows. Recognizing it was their time to quickly evacuate the area; a few Sparrows remained behind to hold them off while they take Loras away. Knowing they were unarmed and had relatively light weaponry, the Sparrows covering their escape knew they were about to be slaughtered.

"Get off me! Now! Let go!" he yelled frustratingly.

The guards proved more than capable of eliminating the Sparrows, but to their surprise the Sparrows gripped a nearby level and forced it down, shutting the gates and breaking the handle off. Smirking in triumph, the Sparrows watched as the guards grabbed at the gate and tried lifting up to no avail. All they could do was watch the enemy escape with Loras Tyrell—a mission they considered a success.

"Fuck!" one the guards banged the bars. "Someone go tell the King, tell him… Tell them that the Sparrows made the first move."

"What will we tell Margaery? Or Lord Tyrell?"

The captain sighed and shook his head. "I get a feeling they'll learn one way or another. Let's just hope they know exactly  _who_  to blame 'cause it'll be an us-versus-them scenario… something we can't afford at the moment."

They knew this day was the Sparrow's victory; but they would not be caught off-guard like this again… and they  _will_  plan to retaliate.

* * *

**Somewhere in Essos…**

* * *

Deep within the arid lands of the Great Grass Sea, Daenerys was covered in dust and her hands were bound. Moments ago after flying atop of Drogon's back out of Meereen, the Dragon Queen found herself stranded in uncharted territory before finding herself surrounded by 100,000 Dothraki – some of them were a few former khalasar who abandoned her after Khal Drogo died. Captured by those she originally followed and briefly led, Daenerys trips before one of the Dothraki bloodriders, Qhono, whip at her.

"Ishish me tih leyes. Mai okeosi inavvasi anni tih leyes majin noreth moon zasqaso. (Maybe she saw a ghost. My friend's mother saw a ghost and her hair turned white)," one of them laughed.

Akho, another bloodrider laughed. "Hannavenaki rokhi shekhes. Me avvirsae ilek moroa. Majin jin hannaveneesi, ishish me kovara torga shekhi k'athneakari sekke majin noreth zasqasoe. (Pink people are afraid of the sun. It burns their skin. So this pink girl, she probably stands too long in the sun and her hair goes white.)"

Daenerys understood what Qhono and Akho were saying, all of it was directed at her—what they planned to do to her once they were alone. She hated being sold like a broodmare, used and abused, raped and defiled… she endured such abuse most of her life in exile. But tonight, the Dragon Queen was having none of it when presented to Khal Moro.

The moment he groped her, Daenerys turned the tables.

"Vo frakho anna vosecchi. (Do not touch me)," she snaps.

The Dothraki bloodriders and wives look at each other; two of them slowly back away as Daenerys continued.

"Anha Daenerys Vazyol h'Okreseroon Targeryen, Atak ma Hakesoon Mae, Osavvirsak, Khaleesi Mirini, Khaleesi m'Andahli ma Roynari m'Ataki, Khaleesi Havazhofi Hranni, ma Haggey-Assamvak ma Mai Zhavorsi. (I am Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, the Unburnt, Queen of Meereen, Queen of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons.)"

Khal Moro scoffed. "Yer vosak, yorak ma hakesoon yeri, Khaleesi Vosi, zafra Khali Moro. (You are nobody, the millionth of your name, Queen of Nothing, slave of Khal Moro)," he laughs at her. "Ajjalan anha achilok ma yeroon, ma hash Vezhof erina, hash yer vayyoe anhaan rizhes. Hash yer tihoe? (Tonight I will lie with you, and if the Great Stallion is kind you will give me a son. Do you understand?)"

"Anha vos ochilok ma shafkoa vosecchi. (I will not lie with you)," Daenerys glared at him. "M'anha vo vayyok vo yal che ha shafkea che h'eshnakaan. Avvos vosma shekh yola she jimma ma drivoe she titha. (And I will bear no children, for you or anyone else. Not until the sun rises in the west and sets in the east.)"

"Me allayafa anna. Athvadar mra qora. (I like her. She has spirit.)"

And that was when Daenerys decided to drop the mother of all bombshells. "Anha chiorikemoon ha Khalaan Drogo ki Bharbosi. (I was wife to Khal Drogo, son of Khal Bharbo)," she revealed.

That proved more than enough to make Khal Moro back away from her. "Khal Drogo driva. (Khal Drogo is dead)," he remarks.

The Dragon Queen nodded. "Anha nesak. Anha avvirsa khadokh moon. (I know. I burnt his body.)"

Knowing it was forbidden among the Dothraki, Khal Moro unsheathed his blade and cuts Daenerys' bindings off – freeing the use of her hands.

"Anha nemo echomosak. Anha vo neso. (Forgive me. I did not know)," he apologizes. "Me izvena, jin athchilozar ma khaleenisoon. Vosak ofrakha year vosecchi, anha astak yeraan asqoy. (It is forbidden to lie with a Khal's widow. No one will touch you, you have my word.)"

Despite her requests for the Dothraki to take her back to Meereen, Daenerys was instead sent to the Temple of the Dosh Khaleen in Vaes Dothrak where the other widows of dead Khals live. For the rest of their days they'd live out their lives. Daenerys, however, was not the kind of woman to be kept confined for the rest of her life – knowing the other crones hate her, thinking the Dothraki should not interbreed with other races.

Tonight, the Dragon Queen formulated a plan to eliminate the Khals Brozho, Rhallko, Porrzho, Moro and Qorro and take absolute control of the Dothraki—with the aid of two priestesses she befriended. During the Khalar vezhven, the Khals argued about how to deal with Daenerys; Moro wanted her to join the Dosh Khaleen, Porrzho expressed interest in her and Qorro suggested selling her to the Wise Masters in exchange for 10,000 horses.

Daenerys, however, dismissed them all.

"Anha nesak rekke anha kovarak. (I know where I am)," she tells them. "Anha ray dothra jinne hatif ajjin. Hazze, she haz sorfo, anha adakh zhores vezhoon. Ma Dosh Khaleen hake yal anni Vezh Fin Saja Rhaesheseres. (I have been here before. Right there, on that spot, I ate a stallion's heart. And the Dosh Khaleen pronounced my child the Stallion Who Mounts the World.)"

"Ma fini meliso? Yer shille maege, ven tokik. Enta yeri Rhaego driva haji yeroon. Majin Khal Drogo akka. (And what happened? You trusted a sorceress, like a fool. Your baby Rhaego is dead because of you. And so is Khal Drogo)," Khal Morro countered.

"Jinne zhey Drogo ast asqoy vidrie khalasares mae jim, finnaan nakhoe rhaesheser. Dothralat hrazef ido yomme Havazzhifi Kazga ven et vo khal avvos. Me ast asqoy addrivat mahrazhis fini ondee khogar shiqethi ma ohharat okrenegwin mori. Me ast asqoy anhaan. Hatif Maisi Krazaaji, kash shieraki vitihir asavvasoon. (This is where Drogo promised to take his khalasar west to where the world ends. To ride wooden horses across the black salt sea as no khal has done before. He promised to kill the men in their iron suits and tear down their stone houses. He swore it to me. Before the Mother of Mountains, as the stars looked down in witness.)"

The other Khals laughed amongst themselves. "Ma yer ven toki ven yer shillo mae. (And you were dumb enough to believe him.)"

"Ma jinne, ajjin, fin vaese zhokwa jerie Khali Vezhveni? Fin vaesish vemrasoe yeri, finsanney nayat vil ahilee yeri, finsanney hrazef aqaffi yeri k'azhi. Yeri mahrazhi zhikwi. Torga yeri, Dothraki yanqosoraan zhikwi.  _Vos at yeroa_  venoe idrilat mora vosecchi. Vosma  _anha venok_.  _Majin anha vidrik_. (And here, now, what great matters do the Great Khals discuss? Which little villages you'll raid, how many girls you'll get to fuck, how many horses you'll demand in tribute. You are small men. Under you, the Dothraki will be a small people.  _None of you_  is fit to lead them.  _But I am_.  _So I will_.)"

Khal Morro didn't take that threat lightly and quickly stood up. "Athgoshar. Vos Dosh Khaleen ha yeraan. Athvokkerar yeri. Ha rekaan, ha jinaan, kisha ahileki yera k'athmajizari. Majin kisha vazhaki dothrakhqoyoon kishi hilelat yera. (All right. No Dosh Khaleen for you. Instead we'll take turns fucking you. And then we'll let our bloodriders fuck you)," he tells her. "Majin hash zhille athzinari yeri vekha, hash kisha vazhaki ekh hrazefaan kishi. Hash yer ray tih kifinosi hilee hrazef chiories? Jini vekhikh fin eth tihi yer hatif yer drivoe. Ma yer atihi mae. Hatif yer drivoe zhorre. Zhey gech yofi. Hash yer shillo k'athjilari mekisha asilaki yera? (And if there's anything left of you, we'll give our horses a turn. You crazy cunt. Did you really think we would serve you?)"

Daenerys smiled and laid her hand on a fire pit. "Yeri vos osili vosecchi. Yeri vadrivoe. (You're not going to serve. You're going to die)," she replies.

Pushing the fire pit onto the ground, Daenerys watches as the Khals cower away from the flames as she repeatedly topples more braziers down one by one – setting the floor of the hut aflame in mere seconds. Soon enough, the flame begins to cover the entire temple; when each structure begins to collapse in the inferno, one bars the doorway—preventing the Khals from escaping when they tried running for it to avoid the rapidly spreading fire. All they could do was watch and scream, helpless as the raging inferno engulfed them all—with Daenerys smiling as she watched them die, incinerating the entire Dothraki leadership. Their screams don't last long.

Outside, the Dothraki people gather around the burning temple. Eventually, the doors collapse before Daenerys herself emerges out of the fire, naked and unharmed. Her clothes were burnt off her body, but otherwise she was unfazed—the Dragon Queen had demonstrated her power and authority before the assembly. The Dothraki gazed in awe, horrified and fearful in equal measure, tens of thousands bow to Daenerys almost immediately with the rest of the Dosh Khaleen and the high priestesses not long afterwards.

"She vo Meereen. (On to Meereen)," she shouts orders. "Kisha hash zafra silve niyanqoy vo athvilajerar (We have a slave master alliance to fight)."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Sparrows strike first with a deceptive tactic of deploying a distraction against Daveth while the others go after Loras Tyrell. Although the Sparrows win the first round, the fight is just beginning as the Oathkeeper takes up his father's mighty war hammer to prevent another kidnapping. The Tyrells and Royces also plan on joining the fray against the Sparrows and help wrap the whole thing up ASAP. With Daveth feeling a slow ember evolving into a roaring flame, he has an idea as to who the Sparrows might target next.
> 
> And Daenerys Targaryen returns; although she gets caught, she decimates the Dothraki leadership and takes full control of the horde before ordering them to march on to Meereen—where she is expecting a Slave Master Coalition to attack the city-state.
> 
> Both are great leaders in their own right, but when they'll both inevitably clash—who will come out on top in the end? Thoughts? Let me know.


	113. Oathkeeper Strikes Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The gloves come off; now it's war.

**In the Red Keep…**

* * *

Myrcella and Tommen played a round of cyvasse in the gardens while Ser Jaime watched them both. The Kingslayer watched with amusement as his 'niece' dominated her youngest brother, often asking for advice on how to gain any footing—which she teased. During her stay in Dorne, Myrcella learned how to play from Trystane; and like their eldest brother, she's proven herself to be a quick learner.

"How do you do that, 'Cella?" exclaimed Tommen.

"Tee-hee, that's for me to know and you to figure out, little brother," teased Myrcella.

Jaime continued observing their play; but a distinctive sound of bushes rustling snapped him out of it. As a Kingsguard, his primary duty was guarding the royal family of Westeros. Any who might go after them, he would immediately respond.

"What was that?" the Young Cub heard.

Myrcella heard it too. "I don't know. But I've got a bad feeling about this…"

The Kingslayer maintained a firm grip on the handle of his sword, senses on high alert. "Come on out now," he called. "You're terrible at trying to sneak up on us like this. Show yourself and  _maybe_  I'll be a bit lenient."

Both Myrcella and Tommen looked at each other; they now knew something was wrong. Knowing that there'd be no sense in relying on stealth, Jaime observed 12 Sparrows emerging from the bushes and outer columns of the gardens—all of them armed with clubs and rods.

"Ser Jaime of House Lannister," one observed. "Knight of the Kingsguard, you are hereby ordered to stand aside. Lower your weapons and you won't be harmed."

"Kingslayer."

"Oathbreaker."

"A man without honor."

Jabbed at and insults hurled in his direction, Jaime noticed some of the Sparrows starred at Myrcella and Tommen in a threatening manner, and that did not make him back down.  _'Like Seven hells I will,'_  he growled. "You don't make demands here. Turn around and walk away."

"We brothers of the Holy Faith don't have the authority to do so. And you don't have the authority to order us."

"I don't think you comprehend the gravity of the situation," a voice called out.

Jaime, Tommen and Myrcella turned to see Daveth and Trystane arriving on the scene in the nick of time—both of them were armed. The Young Stag removed the strap around his shoulder and gripped Robert's war hammer tightly in both hands despite the bludgeoning weapon's weight; Trystane, the heir to Dorne, steadily unsheathed his rapier.

"Trystane!" she called out.

"Stay behind me," he called out.

Before either Myrcella or Tommen could move, the Sparrows moved in closer.

"You harbor sinners and abominations, Oathkeeper," one Sparrow proclaimed. "You disgrace your house and yourself."

Daveth gave a menacing glare. "Ser Jaime," he said. "The Sparrows have absconded with the heir to Highgarden, Ser Loras Tyrell. These fanatics here used one of their own as a distraction while his comrades here moved in to do the same with Princess Myrcella and Prince Tommen. Divide and conquer."

***SHIIING!***

In that instant, Jaime unsheathed his sword as the Sparrows readied themselves for a bloody conflict. But neither the Kingslayer nor Young Stag seemed to care as Myrcella and Tommen gathered closer to their nearby protectors.

"Well, that was all I needed to hear," Jaime remarked coldly. "Try to tear our family apart, and you'll be shown no mercy. Now get out."

The Sparrows frowned. "The High Sparrow knew you'd say that for you've chosen to be judged by the Father instead of embracing the Mother's mercy. So order your uncle to step aside or there will be violence. To defy us is to defy the Gods."

Daveth gripped the war hammer, his eyes glued to the Sparrows. "I choose violence," he hissed threateningly.

Each of the Sparrows rushed at them, clubs and rods in the air ready to swing. Jaime easily cut down six of them before six more of them managed to bypass him to try to get at Myrcella and Tommen, guarded by Daveth and Trystane. Having practiced his fencing skills after the fiasco in Dorne, Trystane thrusted his rapier into two of them while Daveth spun his war hammer around.

***BAM!***

One of the Sparrows managed to land a lucky hit on Daveth's head with a club before the meat-tenderizing end of his massive war hammer swung around and smashed him hard in the chest – caving in his chest cavity as he was sent flying across the floor. The Young Stag swung his hammer and connects with the side of another Sparrow's head; when the assailant dropped to the ground, Daveth transitions onto the next Sparrow and swings his hammer – hitting him directly in the face, his skull making a sickening crunch sound as it was caved in by the force of the hammer's impact.

With only one Sparrow remaining, Daveth and Jaime closed the gap. As the Young Stag knocked his legs out from under him, the Kingslayer raised his sword up high and brought the tip of his blade down in an aggressive thrusting move—driving it deep into the Sparrow's throat. The Sparrow gurgled before being silenced. Jaime withdrew his sword and looked at Daveth, who had a minor cut on the side of his head.

"Brother!" Tommen noticed.

Myrcella hugged Trystane. "Are you okay?" she asked.

"I was about to ask you that," he replied. "Did they touch you?"

"No. We're fine."

Daveth rubbed his head, annoyed at the sense of discomfort before noticing Tommen approaching him.

"I… I'm sorry, brother," he apologized. "I didn't mean to freeze like that. I just—"

"Hush, Tommen. It's fine," he interrupted.

"But your head's bleeding!"

"It's just a scratch. I've had worse." He glanced down at the pile of bodies.

Ser Jaime wiped his blade clean and looked towards the royal host. The Kingslayer felt more concerned for the well-being of Tommen and Myrcella, but overall he was relieved that both were safe and unharmed—though he wished they didn't have to see this up close like that.

"How are you?" he asked.

"A bit shaken, but I'm fine," Myrcella answers.

Tommen still had a look of guilt and lamenting at himself but regained his composure. "I'm all right," he spoke confidently.

"You are. You will be. I'll see to that." Jaime looked down at the Sparrows, seething with fury at what they just tried to do. "I'm going to get Bronn the largest bag of gold anyone's ever seen and have him gather the best killers he knows. I'll take them searching from door-to-door until we find the High Sparrow and I'll remove his head and every other Sparrow head I can find."

"Tempting, but do that and we'll end up proving their point," Daveth disagreed. "If we want to find where the High Sparrow's hiding we'll need to coordinate efforts with Varys until he spies pick up a scent. Lord Royce already has his people on the streets. When they find something, we'll be the first to know. And when we do, we'll treat them without mercy."

"Shouldn't it be easier to negotiate with the Sparrows?" Tommen asked.

The Young Stag scoffed. "I tried to be reasonable with them before this got out of hand. Diplomacy is a useful tool when it works, but it's basically useless when everyone already perceives you as a threat. No, these Sparrows will always believe they're in the right and won't be convinced otherwise. They must be dealt with."

Ser Barristan finally arrived on the scene. "There you are," he said.

"Lord Commander."

"Lady Stark's been asking for you."

Daveth sighed. "I see. And what does my mother-in-law want?" he asked.

"She says you need to tend to your son and daughter as soon as possible."

"My kids are all right?"

"Yes, Your Grace, they're fine. Lady Stark wants to talk to you."

"Fine, I'll stop by and see what she has to say," he sighed. "In the meantime, inform the Small Council of what's happened here. Also, have Lord Tyrell and Lady Olenna assemble a rescue team. Ser Jaime, take my brother and sister to their quarters and have competent guardsmen posted outside their rooms. I don't want us to be taken by surprise like this again."

"Understood."

Both Ser Jaime and Ser Barristan led Myrcella, Tommen and Trystane away from the gardens and away from the bloodied carnage. Daveth moved to leave, though stopped for a moment and glanced over his shoulder at the dead Sparrows near his feet. He still gripped the war hammer in his hand which still had a few droplets of blood and brain matter coming off of it. He then noticed his left hand shake before curling into a tight fist which made the trembling stop.

"I warned you what would happen if you forced my hand, High Sparrow," he quietly told himself. "When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die. This time, however, you and your followers have crossed the line. You made this personal. You want a fight? Well, you just got one because this stag has teeth and claws to go with his antlers.  _And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with no one there to hear. Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear._ "

Daveth walked away, clutching his head with his left hand and bit his tongue to keep himself in check – not wanting to slide down that dark path again; even now it was becoming much harder to maintain his composure in light of the recent attempted kidnapping of Myrcella and Tommen. The Sparrows targeted his family, and they were going to face merciless retaliation soon. For now, Daveth laid a list of priorities in taking the fight to the Sparrows themselves: locate and rescue Ser Loras, track down the Sparrows… and eliminate the High Sparrow himself.

"Sansa…" he sighed.

* * *

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Sansa and her personal guards along with several Manderly men-at-arms accompanied her through the southern gates of Winterfell past winter town. A lot had changed noticeably since she last set foot in her birthplace; snow had covered the ramparts and nearby fields, fresh new delivery of timber had reinforced the railings and support structures to replace old ones due to natural degeneration. But Sansa had noticed a rather large gathering in the courtyard.

The Wolf Queen noticed the sigils of Houses Mormont, Glover, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Mazin and Umber. Because of all the commotion, no one had even noticed Sansa arriving in the courtyard. She raised a hand up, motioning for her companions to stop before dismounting from their horses. Theon was not too far behind and carefully carried Jeyne down as best as he could.

"Ow, ow, ow," she whined.

"Easy there, I got you," Theon reassured her.

While the Greyjoy helped Jeyne down, arriving down from the upper level staircase was Robb's wife Talisa and their 2-year-old son Little Eddard.

"Your Grace," she called out.

This caused the gathering Northern lords to cease chattering and stood surprised when they finally noticed Sansa Stark in their presence. One by one, each of the Northern lords dropped to one knee in a formal act of recognition. Sansa calmly held her chin up formally and waved her hand.

"You may rise, my lords," she said in a regal tone.

When they stood, Talisa and her son approached. "Eddard, this is your aunt, Queen Sansa," she told him. "Can you say hello?"

The young heir to Winterfell bashfully hid behind his mother's skirt, earning a chuckle. Sansa looked at the boy and was reminded of her own children. 'Eddard'… that was her father's name. The Wolf Queen gave a warm smile and knelt to meet her young nephew at eye-level.

"Hello, Eddard," she politely greeted. "I'm your auntie. It's nice to finally meet you."

Eddard peaked from behind Talisa before slowly approaching her. "H-hewo, auntie," he greeted.

Talisa smiled at her son's shyness before she noticed Jeyne. "Wait a minute, what happened?" she asks.

Theon looked up at her. "Jeyne's got a few broken ribs and a sprained ankle. She needs—"

"I can see that. Bring her to my chambers at once. I'll get my supplies and we can tend her wounds. How did this happen?"

"Ramsay's men. They found us. We were lucky enough to escape."

Talisa nodded. "I see. Robb will definitely need to hear of this."

Once Jeyne was carried off away—her wailing sounds of discomfort and pain echoing throughout the courtyard, Sansa watched her best friend being escorted into her sister-in-law's medical chambers. Even as an elevated foreign lady in a foreign country, Talisa still retained the use of her medicinal practices and often treated patients herself along with Maester Luwin.

"Will she be all right?" Sansa asked.

"Provided none of her vital organs were punctured, I'd recommend Jeyne would at least stay in bed these next few weeks so she could heal properly," Talisa answered. "Don't worry, Your Grace. She'll make it through."

"Thank you, Lady Talisa. It means a great deal. Jeyne's like a sister to me."

"We'll take good care of her."

As if on cue, Robb emerged onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard. Sansa slowly spins around until she and her brother lock eyes. Robb descends from the balcony, though young Rickon was moving faster and was more eager.

"Sister!" he called out in excitement.

Sansa spread her arms out wide and embraced her youngest brother in a big hug, a sense of relief washing over her as the Wolf Queen felt her emotions welling up at being reunited with her brothers. Robb moves past his bannermen and embraces Sansa who reciprocates the familial act of affection.

"Look at you. You've grown so much since we last saw you, Sansa," Robb remarked.

"I missed all of you, Robb," Sansa said. "It's… good to be home."

The Young Wolf pulled away. "What are you doing here?" he asked curiously.

"Let's just say that the rumors spreading around up here in the North have made their way to the capital. To say it involved Arya had me feeling rather concerned so I came here to whether or not they had merit," she answered. "But what we found… was quite upsetting."

"I know. I've heard the same," Robb turned to Theon. "Theon, where are the others?"

Theon briefly looked away before returning to look at him. "They're all gone, Robb. They stayed behind to cover our escape from the Dreadfort. I'm all that's left."

Robb felt angry. "They're… dead? All of them?"

"All of them. Ramsay Snow and his men killed them all."

"He speaks the truth, Robb," Sansa vouched for him. All the Northern lords were within earshot. "Ramsay Snow, the bastard son of Roose Bolton, has attacked us—both the North and my family."

"What did he do?"

"Other than what he's already done to my best friend, Jeyne of House Poole, a friend who I consider a sister? It was Ramsay who was behind the attempted assassination against my husband's life."

Dacey Mormont, the new Lady of Bear Island, approached with her younger sisters Alysane and Lyanna. "Unbelievable. What else have you discovered, Your Grace?" she asked.

"Locke and a dozen of his best hunters were released from captivity and tried to kill Daveth in Dorne during the negotiations. Out of spite after his crimes were exposed after the North took back Moat Cailin during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, Ser Olyvar theorized he might also be behind this misery plaguing the North. And based on the evidence of what I've seen on the way here it appears our suspicions have merit. Do not be deceived, my lords and ladies. I've come here with a warning: Ramsay Snow is a sadistic evil man capable of committing unspeakable atrocities without remorse."

"He flayed our men alive," Theon revealed.

Robb was taken aback. "My father outlawed flaying in the North," he grimaced.

"You clearly don't know him that well," Olyvar pointed out.

"We should march on the Dreadfort and bring this bastard Snow to justice," Lord Cerwyn called out.

"Him and that traitorous spawn of mine too," the Greatjon Umber seconded the motion. "I believe both had a hand in the attempt on my life before making the journey here."

 _'These are very serious accusations. And given what Sansa's been telling me, I think that'll be all the proof I need,'_  Robb thought. "My lords, my ladies, Your Grace, after much deliberation and… review of the complaints made against Ramsay Snow of House Bolton, let it be known that all those who've wronged us and the North itself will be given justice. It might not make the pain go away, but they will never harm anyone in the North ever again; not so long as we draw breath."

"Aye!"

"Hear, hear!"

Olyvar, not being of the North, approached. "Pardon my mannerisms, Lord Stark, but I think that's what Ramsay Snow will want you to do," he said.

"Oh?" the Greatjon towered over him. "And why is that, weasel boy?"

 _'Cal me that again and I swear to the Stranger, old man…'_  the Frey knight gritted his teeth. "You think he's going to fall into your trap, he won't. Given what he's capable of, it's clear that  _he's_  the one who lays the traps. Go at him now and you'll be walking right into it."

Sansa nodded. Robb, meanwhile, stood firm.

"Yet his overconfidence is also one of his biggest weaknesses," he pointed out. "Goad him enough and he'll eventually make a mistake."

"He plays with people! He's far better at it than you. He's been doing it all his life. He wants you to make a mistake."

"And you have better ideas?"

Feeling her frustrations boiling and the queasiness in the pit of her stomach acting up again, Sansa threw her hands up. "Robb, I might not know anything about battles – but you need to listen to me. Just don't do what Ramsay wants you to do."

"Sansa, you're my sister. I respect your opinion. You're our Queen, I understand that. But you have to understand that we've beaten the odds once before and we can do it again."

 _'Damn it, Robb. You're sounding almost like father. You need to be smarter than him,'_ the Wolf Queen thought.

Robb noticed Sansa's annoyance yet before he could say anything he was pulled aside by a messenger who whispered into his ear. Almost no one could tell what he was saying, but Robb's eyes widened and looked almost ecstatic.

"He's here…?" he asked.

The messenger nodded. "And it seems he has a bunch of wildlings with him."

Now Robb was curious and had a hard time figuring out that last part. Sansa felt her stomach churn and bile climbed up her throat, prompting her to immediately cover her mouth.

"Mmph!" she almost gagged.

Brienne, Lucius, Olyvar and Robb all turned to look at her.

"What's the matter?" Robb asked.

Sansa forced herself to swallow the substance back down her throat. "I… I need to see a maester," she said. "Is Luwin still here?"

"I'm here, Your Grace," Maester Luwin emerged. "Come. Let me take a look at you."

Sansa took a moment to excuse herself from the Northern assembly and accompanied Luwin into her personal chambers. With Talisa occupying herself tending to Jeyne's injuries, the old maester would take it upon himself to determine what was wrong with the Wolf Queen. Brienne, Olyvar and Lucius all stood outside the door on guard. Luwin sat Sansa down on a chair by the fire. While he gathers his medical supplies, he hands her a bowl of soup.

"Here," Luwin offers. "This should help settle your stomach."

"Thank you, Maester Luwin," Sansa lifts the bowl to her lips and drinks from it. "Mmm. This is good soup. Reminds me of those kidney pies Old Nan used to make us."

"With the peas and onions?"

"Yes."

Maester Luwin chuckled and turned to her. "Now, what seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"I've been… feeling rather nauseous. At times I can't sleep, headaches come and go, my feet are killing me and I get random mood swings."

"And how long has this been going on for?"

"Almost four weeks. It started while on the voyage to White Harbor."

"Hmm. Well, let me examine you. Perhaps we'll find out what's been causing this."

Sansa nodded and allowed Maester Luwin to examine her. She'd known him since she was a little girl and trusted him to do his job. After certain tests, he handed her a small replica of a chamber pot and instructed her to provide a urine sample. Uncomfortable as she felt at the request, Sansa took the pot with her to a more closed off, more private area of Luwin's chamber to pee. Once the Wolf Queen uncomfortably handed the pot back to Luwin, the maester mixed the sample with wine and other chemical compounds under an observatory lens; the examination lasted about four to five hours before Luwin noticed the color turning blue due to the chemicals reacting to the amount of protein present.

Satisfied with his findings, Luwin steadily rose from his seat and approached Sansa.

"Is everything well?" she asked.

Luwin smiled. "Congratulations, Your Grace."

Sansa blinked for a moment. "Wait, y-you mean…" she realized.

"Yes. You're pregnant."

Sansa felt her breath being taken away and lowered her eyes down. As she placed a hand on her still flat stomach, Sansa felt her lips curling into a warm loving smile now that her suspicions have been confirmed: she was once again pregnant with her third child she made with Daveth. Although it would take time, her stomach would develop a small bump that will grow in the next coming months. Despite everything that's been going on, there was still hope. With all this death going on, life would always find away. It was a cycle that kept repeating itself from the dawn of time. Sansa massaged her stomach attentively.

"Pregnant," she repeated. "I'm pregnant."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not long after the Sparrows made the first move, Daveth hit back harder with the backing of Trystane Martell and Jaime Lannister. Although they foiled the attempted kidnapping of Myrcella and Tommen, this fight was far from over – but rather it was the beginning. With the plan to rescue Loras from the Sparrows are bound to come to a head, people will no doubt be caught in the middle. Even the conflict, we see Daveth struggling to repress his inner Baratheon rage and prevent it from consuming him again.
> 
> Sansa Stark has arrived at Winterfell and shares a reunion with her brothers, sister-in-law and meets her nephew for the first time. She and her companions share what they find on the way back and Robb intends to deliver the King's Justice in his own way – though Sansa suspects her older brother tends to lean more towards their late father Eddard Stark's perspective. Despite that, the Wolf Queen has something up her sleeves.
> 
> And no need for reveals as you guys knew for a long time after noticing big hints: Sansa is once again pregnant with baby number 3. How will this play out in the long run? Thoughts? Let me know.


	114. Interventions, Strategizing, and the Benefactor

**Within Maegor's Holdfast…**

* * *

Daveth massaged the small bandage wrapped around his head. His mother-in-law Catelyn asked to see him, though by the time he was walking back to his room – his earlier temper had seemingly simmered down, though the Young Stag was still overall determined to wipe out the Sparrows for their recent transgressions. Ser Barristan walked alongside his former squire, never taking his eyes off him—whether it was due to the blow on the head he received, or fighting to suppress his inner demons once more.

Pushing the door to his chambers open, Daveth noticed his children playing with each other as Catelyn gently reminding them in a grandmotherly tone to be careful. Their candied plums remained untouched due to Catelyn herself determining they were not yet ready for sweets yet. In her hands she was a woven wooden circle bound together with twine; Tyrion watched with amusement as he drank his goblet of wine. Lyonel and Cassana stopped playing with their toys when they saw Daveth entering the room.

"Daddy!" they rushed him.

Catelyn and Tyrion turned towards him, though they both the bandage with dried blood on his head.

"By the Gods, what happened?" the Tully-turned-Stark matriarch asked.

"Sparrows tried to capture Tommen and Myrcella," Daveth calmly explained. "One of them ended up hitting me in the head with a club."

"Are you in pain?" asked Tyrion.

Daveth shook his head 'no'. Cassana looked up at her father and pointed at his head.

"Daddy go' e boo-boo," she piped up.

"I'm fine, Cass," he reassured his daughter.

"I kiss betta'?"

Daveth was amused at his daughter's gesture and felt a bit more relaxed.  _'I swear she's just like you, Sansa,'_  he speculated before bending down at Cassana's eye-level. He watched his daughter hold his head with her small hands and felt Cassana plant a kiss on his bandages.

"Betta'?" she asked innocently.

The Young Stag nodded. "Better. Thank you, little firefly," he said appreciatively.

Cassana smiled sweetly and returned to playing with her dolls. Lyonel returned to playing with his wooden toys. Tyrion chuckled at the sight.

"She's showing herself to be quite the daddy's girl, nephew," he pointed out.

Daveth ignored his uncle's remark and stood back up. "Cat, Ser Barristan said you wanted to see me?"

Catelyn looked at her son-in-law. "We both did," she stated, referring to herself and Tyrion. "Our two houses have always been close, which is the reason why Sansa asked me to look after you in her stead until she returns."

"There's more going on than meets the eye. With trouble brewing in the North and here in the capital, even the rest of us can notice that the crown's heavy burden often weighs down on you when something becomes personal," Tyrion explained. "As such, Lady Stark and I have determined… that the situation is now a lot more complicated. But then, we all live complicated lives, don't we?"

"So why not tell us. I can see some wear and tear."

Daveth opened his mouth to speak but clamped it shut.  _'Don't even think about lying to your family; they'll end up finding out eventually if you do,'_  he told himself. "There have been some rough patches," he said. "But with everything going on with these Sparrows, I feel myself slipping."

"Slipping? How bad is it?"

"When they went after Tommen and Myrcella, I really let loose."

"So you did what any other older brother would've done and defended—" Tyrion said before being cut off.

"It gets worse from there. I found myself starting to hum  _The Rains of Castamere_  under my breath moments after I killed them," Daveth interrupted. He spoke quietly so his children couldn't hear him. "Such dark and impulsive thoughts I could barely keep under control whenever I get this worked up."

The dwarf Hand of the King paused while sipping, looking surprised and somewhat concerned. Tyrion set the goblet aside and just stared at his nephew in the eyes, detecting a dangerous mix of inner turmoil and ruthless satisfaction butting heads with one another. Adept at playing the game of thrones, Tyrion knew that any further impact would eventually cause Daveth to snap when push comes to shove.

"But do you know the thing that does bother me?" he continued. "There's not a day goes by where I don't think about subjecting the Sparrows and every single people like them to every horrendous torture they've dealt onto others before ripping them out root and stem. It'd be too easy. But if I did that, if I went down that road again like I did with the Iron Islands, I'll never come back."

Tyrion and Catelyn sat there listening to Daveth opening himself up like this; Ser Barristan noticed too. The Lord Commander of the Kingsguard stood at his side when he placed his hand under chin, scratching his white-haired beard.

"These are disturbing words, Your Grace," he noted. "But sometimes it is better to answer injustice with mercy. Show them that there is another way."

Daveth looked up at his former mentor. "I've tried that, Ser Barristan. I really did. But after what they've just done… they've left me no choice. The Sparrows are beyond redemption, and must be dealt with before more innocent people get hurt or worse."

"Then remind them of what truly matters. We squabble amongst ourselves and blame each other for our troubles while the people who matter suffer most. No life is worth living if we cannot be true to our better nature, Daveth." Barristan turned to leave the room before looking over his shoulder. "I'll oversee the plans to rescue the Knight of the Flowers. But try to find solace in what brings you joy. Spend it wisely, and with those who care for you."

Daveth watched Ser Barristan leave the room – most likely to arrange for the local security forces in organizing a search and rescue mission. By now Tyrell, Arryn, Lannister and Baratheon troops had already arrived in King's Landing as reinforcements against the insurgent Sparrow heretical movement. The Young Stag felt wearier upon expressing what he felt; all while Catelyn placed her prayer wheel for the Faith of the Seven down on her lap – sewing on the finishing touches before hanging it up on table.

"Making those lately, Lady Stark?" Tyrion asked.

Catelyn shook her head. "You wouldn't understand, Lord Tyrion. Only a mother makes one for her children to protect them. Only a mother can make them."

"Didn't you make one before when Bran had his accident?" Daveth asked.

"Twice. I prayed for my son to survive—which he did after quite some time passed us by. I imagine Cersei told me the same thing when she mentioned how sick you were; almost died if I remember right."

The Young Stag had faint flashbacks, but each one was more distant than the other.

"Gods be good, I wasn't an ideal mother," she said.

"What do you mean?" Daveth asked curiously. He hadn't heard Catelyn say that before and pictured her as the ideal embodiment of House Tully's words  _Family, Duty, Honor_.

Catelyn sighed. "Many years ago, one of the boys at Winterfell came down with the pox. Maester Luwin said if he made it through the night, he'd live. But it would be a very long night. So I sat with him all through the darkness; listened to his ragged little breaths, his coughing, and his whimpering."

"Who's?"

"Jon Snow."

Tyrion was suddenly interested. "Jon Snow? Ned Stark's bastard?" he asked.

Catelyn nodded. "When Ned brought that baby home from the rebellion, I couldn't bear to look at him. I didn't want to see those brown stranger's eyes staring up at me. So I prayed to the Gods, 'take him away. Make him die.' He got the pox. And I knew I was the worst woman who ever lived. A murderer. I'd condemned this poor, innocent child to a horrible death all because I was jealous of his mother. A woman he didn't even know."

"So what did you do?"

"I prayed to all Seven Gods, 'let the boy live. Let him live and I'll love him. I'll be a mother to him. I'll beg my husband to give him a true name, to call him a Stark and be done with it, to make him one of us.'"

"And he lived?"

"And he lived," she confirmed. "But I didn't keep my promise. I couldn't love a motherless child."

Daveth shook his head as he listened to Catelyn lamenting on her failures; this would explain why she treated Jon Snow terribly—he never knew him that well, other than the occasional glance or two when the royal party arrived at Winterfell five years ago. But then again, after spending some time with Eddard Stark during his tenure as Hand of the King and his Regent, the Young Stag concluded his deceased father-in-law was an honorable man—it didn't match his character as someone who'd randomly have sex with some random woman in his youth.

"It's not too late to amends, Cat," Daveth suggested.

She looked uncertain. "Sometimes I wonder."

"Only if you give up on yourself does it become that much more complicated." The Young Stag places a hand on Catelyn's shoulder. "Things will never easy for us anytime soon, but holding on to the past like that isn't healthy."

That last remark seemed to make Catelyn chuckle a bit. "You've grown since last time," she mentioned.

"Must've been Sansa's doing," he remarked and sighed.

Lyonel whined. "I wan' ma' mommy."

Daveth turned to his son. "I know you do, pup. I miss her too."

"Daddy?" Cassana looked up at her father and stretched her arms out. "Uppie!"

The Young Stag rolled his eyes and lifted his daughter up before placing her on his lap. Cassana hugged her father and buried her face in his chest. Lyonel pouted and demanded he be picked up too; much to Catelyn's amusement. Daveth lifted his son with one arm, but even then the young Prince would still be playing with his toys—often hitting the Young Stag on the arm of chest.

"Ow! Lyonel, that wasn't nice!" He turned to his mother-in-law. "Seriously, how is it that you and Sansa are both able to make this look so easy?" Daveth complained.

Catelyn smiled. "It takes time and practice, Your Grace. And  _especially_  patience."

"Trust me, Cat, Sansa is much more patient with these two than I am. Has been since the day they were born."

* * *

**At the Small Council chambers…**

* * *

"Unbelievable," Ser Kevan bemoaned. "To think they'd even attempted such a feat. These Sparrows would've never dared set foot in King's Landing when Tywin was alive."

"We're here, he's not," Randyll reminded them. "And when we're faced with sedition, it's best to rout them out before more chaos ensues."

Just then, Margaery pushed a set of doors open, entering the Small Council chambers and angrily puts her hands on the table. She heard of Loras's capture by the Sparrows and went to confront the King's advisors.

"Why is my brother in Sparrow captivity?!" the Princess Consort demands.

Mace, Randyll, Trystane, Olenna, Varys, Pycelle, Yohn, Tommen and Myrcella all turned to look at her. Lord Tyrell was more concerned and worried for both his children; Randyll remained stern and strict. Varys was still mysterious; the Grand Maester a bit apprehensive as was Prince Trystane. Myrcella thankfully maintained her composure while Tommen seemed more surprised at his wife's reaction than anyone else.

"We-we're doing everything we can," he tries to calm her down. "The Sparrows caught us all off-guard. Don't worry, Margaery. We'll get Ser Loras back. I promise."

Margaery pinched the bridge of her nose. "Your brother is the King of the Andals, the Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, the Protector of the Realm. And you let a band of fanatics take you all by surprise? My brother could be rotting away in some grimy, bygone cell at who-knows where."

"Hey!" Myrcella balked. "We both know who's to blame for this outrage, Margaery, but don't even think about blaming  _my brother_  for what the Sparrows themselves did. Not in front of me."

Yohn decided to play the role of mediator. "My lords and ladies, Your Highnesses, let us see reason. The High Sparrow and his followers have been planning this for quite some time: to get us fighting amongst ourselves instead of standing together as a united front."

"Lord Royce is right," Ser Barristan arrived with Ser Jaime in tow. "We both came here for the same reason: to free Ser Loras of House Tyrell and repelling the Sparrows from terrorizing those we are sworn to protect."

"Just recently additional troops from the Westerlands and the Reach have arrived through the city gates and will maintain constant vigilance," Jaime explained. "Since the City Watch is stretched real thin, we though they could use a little bit more reinforcements while we narrow the search for the High Sparrow and the Sparrow's location."

Margaery sat down, burying her face in her hands in exasperation. "How long can we expect word on the search?" she steadily asked a bit more calmly.

Varys chimed in. "My little birds are scouring through every corner of the city as fast as they can. When they find out where the Sparrows have taken Ser Loras, we will know at once."

Tommen takes his wife's hand and kneels down to look at her tenderly. "See? We've got a plan… well, it's a start but something's better than nothing right?" He turns to his father-in-law. "Lord Tyrell, I may not speak for my brother but our houses are bound by blood too. I'll take full responsibility for this. You'll all see Ser Loras again. I promise."

Mace looked grateful. "Thank you, Prince Tommen," he sighed with relief.

Olenna, however, was more skeptical—not too eager to get her hopes up prematurely. "And what of the aid?" she requests. "You know, I didn't trust Lord Tywin. I didn't particularly like him. I didn't trust your brother King Daveth when we first met, either. But I respected them. He was his grandfather's protégé just as my granddaughter was mine. They both understood that sometimes we must work with our rivals rather than destroy them."

"That time is now," Barristan said. "Together, the combined Lannister and Tyrell armies are among the largest in Westeros. We'll bring them into the city, restore the King's peace and bring Loras back into our custody."

"You know I never thought of you who'd include himself into such affairs of this council, Ser Barristan the Bold."

The old Kingsguard shook his head. "I always hated the politics. Robert did not include me, which I didn't mind. But Daveth on the other hand insisted I take part in it. 'You're the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. As such, the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, you have a seat on the Small Council,' he told me. So like it or not, this is much bigger than our own wants."

Myrcella overlooked a detailed structural map of King's Landing. "These marked entry points have been Sparrow sightings," she pointed. "Our men should be able to narrow the field here, here, and here while the City Watch close off any potential means the Sparrows could use to escape or pop up anywhere. Uncle Kevan, you're the commander of the Lannister armies. What do you think?"

Kevan looked deep in thought. "A sound strategy, but we must always be prepared should the worst come to pass. We could post sentries right… here, atop the ramparts. That way they could warn our men on the ground and the City Watch of potential sightings."

"The whole thing will be over before anyone will realize what's happened," Jaime said. "And when the High Sparrow is in custody or dead, preferably, do you think people will care at the outcome?"

"But we must also take great care," Yohn warned. "There's no telling what could happen if these fanatics find themselves backed into a corner. If things don't go as planned, many will die."

"Many will die no matter what we do," Olenna countered. "Better them than us."

Randyll huffed. "So it's decided then?"

"Aye," they agreed.

"Then the hour has come to take the fight directly to the Sparrows," Mace bellowed. "Madness has plagued the streets and grasped in its claws my son. But now we must drive it back under the rocks whence it came. Madness has had its day!"

_'Oh shut up, ponderous oaf,'_  Olenna mentally chastened her son.

Randyll must've been thinking the same thing as his liege lord's mother, but he agreed that the Sparrows had to be dealt with now. With the armies patrolling the streets, all they had to do was encircle them and pluck them out—every single one of them. Myrcella and Tommen looked at each other, nodding that they themselves had to step in on Daveth's behalf. They promised to help their brother, and now was the time to do just that.

Both were determined to demonstrate how far they've come, though one was more confident than the other.

* * *

**In an unknown cell…**

* * *

The room was damp and dark, with only a few dozen candles illuminating the area. A somewhat disheveled Ser Loras shifted into his chair—knowing full well that his hands were tied behind his back and his feet chained to keep him still. The Knight of the Flowers had no weapon as it was forcibly removed from him during his capture. His hair was messy and undone and he had grown matted beard.

Beside him were the chained up members of the Most Devout: Rosyn, Luceron, Raynard, Torbert, Russal, Moelle and Helicent. Each of them struggled against their restrains, but they were glared upon by several armed Sparrows. By what was new about them were dried up blood from their faces; to show their newfound devotion to their leader, each Sparrow carved the symbol of the Faith of the Seven, the Seven-Pointed Star, onto their foreheads.

"Heathens! How dare you threaten us!" exclaimed Torbert.

"Untie us this instant!" shouted Raynard.

"Be silent, sinners!" yelled one of the Sparrows.

Loras's eyes squinted uncomfortably when the light shone into his eyes, but he could see the High Sparrow approach him—smiling in an intimidating, serious and threatening manner yet sounding so reassuring and tender.

"You are aware of the rumors concerning you and Renly Baratheon?" he interrogated.

"I don't pay attention to the rumors," Loras dismissed.

"You were said to be despondent when he died. Witnesses said that you refused to leave his bedside, even as Stannis' army closed in. Even the war was already coming to an end until storming off to lay siege to King's Landing."

_'Lay into me all you want, old man, but you won't break me,'_  he mentally warned him. "Renly was my friend. I was his squire for many years. He was my King." Loras quickly shut his mouth, realizing what he just said.

"Wasn't Daveth your rightful King?" the High Sparrow asked. "He was anointed by the Seven, not Renly."

"I only realized my mistake after the Battle of the Blackwater. I know that. Despite everything I did, Daveth forgave me and pardoned me for my crimes. I fought for him during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion."

"You were wearing Renly's armor."

"What does it matter what I wore in battle or not?"

"Do you deny all the charges against you? Fornication, buggery, blasphemy."

_'That's double jeopardy, old man!'_  Loras wanted to scream. He kept silent because he knew one wrong step could land him in serious trouble. "Of course I deny them," he disputed. Even if everyone knew if the charges were true, the Knight of the Flowers would not admit to allegations hurled against him.

"You never lay with Renly Baratheon?"

"Never."

"Nor any other man?"

"Never."

The High Sparrow smiled. "Bearing false witness before the Gods is as grave a sin as any, Ser Loras. Our benefactor suggests otherwise."

"'Benefactor'?" Luceron said confused. "What are you talking about?"

One cue, the prison door opens up to reveal the Sparrow movement's primary benefactor—diverting funds to their cause and providing armament for each member. The individual was big-boned with callused hands holding both a beating rod and a Faith scripture and had a scowling homely face. The chained up Most Devout were utterly shocked and horrified as they recognized who stood beside the High Sparrow.

"Unella?! You—?!" Raynard exclaimed.

"Why? How could you do this to us?" demanded Luceron.

"Why?!" shouted Russal.

"Shame! Shame! Shame" yelled Helicent.

Unella, one of the Most Devout, was revealed to be the High Sparrow's benefactor and inside source. She remained undeterred at the screams and shouts her former fellow clergymen directed towards her and smacked Loras on the head with her rod.

***BAM!***

"Gah! Hey!" Loras shouted, unable to massage his head.

"Confess," she demanded.

"I've told you what you wanted! Now let me go! Let us go!"

"Confess."

"Do you have cobwebs in your ears?"

***BAM!***

"Ow! Cut it out!"

"Confess."

"I am the heir to Highgarden. My sister is Princess Consort and I demand you let us go!"

***BAM!***

"Gnagh!"

"Confess."

Loras was getting more pissed. "STOP HITTING ME THIS INSTANT!" he yelled.

Septa Unella slams the scripture book closed and approaches the Knight of the Flowers aggressively. Loras was ready tear her out with his teeth and jumped in his seat, but the wooden legs became loose and he fell onto his side.

"Septa Unella can be overzealous at times," the High Sparrow explained. "But together we'll wipe the slate clean and right the wrongs and injustice caused by sin as it was before the Faith was broken."

"'Right wrongs and injustice caused by sin'? All you're doing is twisting and perverting our Holy Faith's tenants!" Rosyn balked. "Your followers attack the people blood and harass them relentlessly. This is not what the Faith teaches!"

"We are an army that defends the bodies and souls of the common people. By allowing perversion, corruption and sin go unpunished, all of you are sinners in the light of the Seven. When Ser Loras here atones for his sins, so will the rest of you."

Torbert's face twisted with fury. "You are the sinners! And you, Unella, you will burn in the Seven hells for what you've done!"

"You all broke the sacred laws and will be punished accordingly."

Loras lifted his head up from the mud. "Others will hear of this," he warned them. "They will come for you eventually."

The High Sparrow did not appear concerned in the slightest. A small child entered the room holding a tray of water and porridge.

"Seven blessings, mister," the child said.

"Seven blessings, young one," the High Sparrow patted his head and gave him a piece of candy.

The child placed the tray down and left the room. Behind him he could hear more beatings and demands of 'confess' before finally turning the corner and out of sight. He couldn't risk any of the Sparrows spotting him until he was absolutely certain he was alone. Turning the corner, the child bumped into a tall woman with short black hair, blue eyes and dressed masculinely with leather clothes. Her friend, other hand, was a short, buxom woman.

"Sorry, lady," he apologized.

Myranda patted the child's head. "No apologies are necessary, dear child. Are you hurt?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Were you followed?" Mya asked.

He shook his head again. "No, but I was told to find anything and deliver it to you so it can be sent to Lord Varys," he handed over a rolled piece of paper.

Myranda took it and examined the contents. Mya nodded her head and ushered the boy away so he'd blend in the crowd. The lady Royce looked towards her friend.

"Well, this is something," she said seriously. "We found them. Everything we could possibly need is right here. Time to pay the King a little visit, don't you think?"

"Indeed," her friend agreed. "Time to report our findings to Lord Royce… and my brother."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daveth cools himself off with his uncle, mother-in-law and two children whilst his royal councilors plot their next course of action. In the meantime, the Sparrows' benefactor is revealed and the Most Devout themselves were apprehended by the fanatical movement. Sometimes simply talking to someone about how you're feeling can relieve some stress, though others do things differently – so how was the interaction between Daveth and Catelyn Stark? Myrcella takes a bold step in strategizing. Tommen decides to get himself involved. The intensity between the Crown and the Sparrows are heating up. Thoughts? Let me know.


	115. Winter is Coming

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Sansa emerged from her guest room in Winterfell; already the Wolf Queen learned she was pregnant with her third child… but any chance at celebrating had to be put on hold when she heard a rather loud ruckus emanating from beyond the castle walls. Lucius, Brienne and Olyvar accompanied Sansa to the source of the noise, where she found representatives from the Northern houses engaged in a heated argument with the Free Folk, who have marched all the way down from the Wall.

"Invaders!" one Northmen yelled, wielding a sword.

"Wildling scum!" another shouted.

One of the Free Folk stepped forward. "Keep your pointy toys of yours to yourself, southerner!" she yelled.

Greatjon Umber nearly towered over all in attendance, second only to Wun Wun. "This is Stark territory, wildling invaders!" he bellowed. "Turn around and go back where you came from right now or I'll cut you up into tiny little pieces!"

"We didn't invade! We were invited," Tormund shouted.

"Not by me!" Robett Glover said.

"Not by any of us," protested Cerwyn.

Robb found himself struggling to be the mediator. "How did 17,000 wildlings even get through the Wall?" he pressed. "On who's authority did the Night's Watch permit this debacle to happen?"

"I made the call, Robb," Jon stepped forward from the crowd.

"Jon?"

The Young Wolf couldn't believe his eyes; he hadn't seen his bastard half-brother for almost six years since Jon left Winterfell to join the Night's Watch with their uncle Benjen. Both had grown in their own right, though that didn't stop whatever sense of emotion they had been feeling for the first time since they went their separate ways and immediately embraced one another.

> _"Next time I see you, you'll be all in black."_
> 
> _"It was always my color."_
> 
> _"Farewell, Snow."_
> 
> _"And you, Stark."_

Robb and Jon were overwhelmed; both were visibly happy to see each other again. Sansa noticed and rushes out to see them; her trueborn and baseborn brothers. Rickon charged from the crowd, pushing his way past the Northern lords and clutched Jon's leg. Both the Stark children exclaimed how surprised they were at seeing each other again—even their direwolves Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost barked and whined at the reunion.

"Your Grace, is that you're…?" Olyvar asked.

Sansa nodded. "My half-brother, Jon Snow," she confirmed.

The Northern lords noticed their Queen's presence and stood aside, acknowledging her presence. Jon slowly spins around until he sees Sansa. Both stare at each other before embracing.

"You've changed last time we saw you," she noticed.

"Well, you're still taller than me," Jon remarked.

"Still spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you. Sounds childish, I know."

"We were all children once."

"I was awful, just admit it," Sansa pressed.

"You were occasionally awful," Jon chuckled. "I'm sure I couldn't have been great fun. Always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played."

"Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive."

" _Jon_ ,  _forgive me_."

"All right. All right, I forgive you."

"Remember the time we built a great mountain of snow on top a gate?" Robb reminisced. "Pushed it off on whoever passed us by."

"Fat Tom chased us all around the yard."

The Starks were enjoying their family reunion until the Greatjon again bellowed loudly. "Touching as your reunion might be, but we still got a problem here," he pointed towards the Free Folk. "For thousands of years, the wildlings have been harassing us and for thousands of years House Umber always had to drive them back."

"We were permitted to come here," emerged Mance Rayder. "Ned Stark's bastard showed himself to be just as honorable. An intelligent sense of honor; yet adapted his mindset in the face of new circumstances in a rapidly changing world. He's seen the things the Free Folk have seen after spending much time in our company."

Robb looked at Jon. "Care to explain?" he asked seriously.

"I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Robb. It was my decision to make," he explained. "

"But deserting the Night's Watch—"

"They murdered me, Robb! My own brothers shoved their knives in my heart! I couldn't stay at Castle Black, not after what they did to me." Jon shook his head. "I'm tired of fighting. It's all I've ever done since I left home. I've killed brothers of the Night's Watch, I've killed wildlings, I've killed men that I admire, I hanged a  _boy_  younger than Bran! I fought and I lost. I did what I thought was right and they killed me for it."

Robb was stunned at Jon's sudden outburst. He hadn't seen this side of him before, neither did Sansa or Rickon.

"But you're still here, Lord Commander," the youngest Stark pointed out.

Jon shook his head. "Rickon, I'm not the Lord Commander anymore. My watch has ended."

Sansa hummed quietly and gave a small frown; Jon's outburst reminded her of the time when Daveth was so very sick it cost him his life. Despite her efforts, she couldn't save him. But when the mysterious red priestess Varaeleah intervened—whatever magic she used—brought her husband back from the land of the dead. To this day, Sansa couldn't explain how it should've been possible—but suspected Jon's fate and Daveth's fate were somehow linked to each other.

Before either Robb or any of the Northern lords could respond, Ser Rodrik Cassel moves his way towards the front of the gathering with a letter partly crumpled into his hand. The old knight's face was stern as it was serious.

"Robb! Lord Stark," he corrected himself. "A messenger raven just came in from the Dreadfort."

Sansa and Robb were serious. "Show me," the Young Wolf insisted.

As Rodrik handed the paper over to Robb, Sansa and Jon all leaned over their brother's shoulder to read the content. The wax seal was black and red depicting the sigil of House Bolton, which the Young Wolf breaks before opening the scroll.

"'To the Young Wolf Robb Stark'," he reads. "'Because of your gross incompetence and negligence at ruling the North, the many lords you have angered to get your way, it has come to my attention that the traitor and bastard Jon Snow allowed thousands of wildlings past the Wall. By ignoring this you have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed your house. You have betrayed the North. And you had the audacity to send soldiers into my keep to murder my father, Lord Roose Bolton, his wife Walda and her newborn son. Due to the list of crimes House Stark has committed, it's time for new blood to rule the North. The Dreadfort is mine, Stark. Come and see. The men you sent into my halls have been flayed living. Come and see.'"

Sansa, along with the gathered Northern lords and wildlings, slowly felt themselves growing increasingly offended and appalled when Robb continued reading the letter. The Wolf Queen still had not forgotten what Theon told her about what Ramsay Snow did to her best childhood friend Jeyne; she will never forgive him for that.

"'What's more, you have stolen my bride from me. Return her to me or I will ride to your keep and slaughter every Stark man, woman and babe living under your protection as well as every single wildling your bastard brother let loose into our lands. You will watch as I skin them living. You—'"

Sansa maintained her composure, but frowned deeply as Robb read on. This man, this monster – had the audacity to threaten her family and her home? Emotionless, she took the opportunity and snatched up the letter from Robb's hands and read it out loud.

"'You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping both your foreign whore of a wife and your royal sister'," she read. "'You will watch as my dogs devour both your brat and all three of your brothers. Then I will spoon your eyes out from their sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. When the day is done, House Stark will disappear from the history books. No one will mourn you; no one will even mention you. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of the Dreadfort and the Red King.'"

The Wolf Queen watched as the Northern lords and wildlings alike shout in anger and outrage; demanding that blood be spilled, shouts of 'treason' and 'traitor' being hurled at the bastard Ramsay Snow. Sansa dropped the letter, looking at her brothers – a fierce, determined look in her eyes pierced them.

"That… piece of shit… murdered Walda?" Olyvar seethed with fury at the realization, "He killed my niece?! OH, THAT SON OF A BITCH! I'M GONNA KILL THAT BASTARD! I'LL DRIVE A SWORD THROUGH THAT BASTARD'S EVIL FACE!"

"Olyvar, calm yourself!" Lucius scolded. "You march in there acting like that, you'll end up doing exactly what Ramsay wants you to do."

"I—!"

"That's enough, Ser Olyvar. Stand down," Sansa called out.

Taking a few moments to breathe in and out, Olyvar reluctantly stormed off into Winterfell to calm himself down. Sansa knew that it became just as personal for him as it was for the rest of her family, but the Wolf Queen understood that they had to play it smart if they were to ever come out of this and enforce the King's Justice.

"Ramsay killed his own father and declaring himself a Bolton," she said. An angry frown formed on Sansa's face. "Robb, how many men do you believe he has at his disposal?"

Her brother was equally angry. "The Dreadfort should muster around 5,000 infantry and over 2,000 cavalry. House Karstark and the Smalljon contributed 1,000 troops."

"The Karstarks sided with our enemy of their own volition, they can hang," Sansa denounced them.

The Greatjon huffed in agreement, holding up his left hand – revealing three missing fingers. "That bastard boy of mine betrayed my house and fled Last Hearth as a turncoat! I denounce Smalljon and no longer consider him an Umber."

Robb turned to his bannermen. He knew they'd fight for him again, but truth be told, he knew they were tired of fighting and wanted to gather the crops now that winter is here. "Lord Umber, how many of your men can still fight?" he asked.

"I've got 500 marauders," the Greatjon informed him.

"House Glover can muster 3,500 men," Robett chimed in.

"House Mazin offers 143 troops."

"Hornwood only has 200 to spare."

"My son will command 2,500 Manderly cavalry."

Dacey stepped forward with her sisters. "House Mormont has kept faith with House Stark for 1,000 years and will lend 62 men," she said.

"62?" asked Jon.

"We're not a large house, but we're a proud one," Lyanna explained with a fiery tone. "And every man from Bear Island fights with the strength of 10 mainlanders."

Lucius chuckled. "Well, if they're half as ferocious as their Mormont ladies then Ramsay Snow is doomed from the start."

Dacey, Alyanne and Lyanna smile and nod in agreement. "Clearly not a lot of men can handle a Mormont woman," Alyanne remarked proudly. "We'll show the bastard Ramsay what the men and women of Bear Island are capable of."

Jon turned to Mance. "How many Free Folk can fight?"

"The ones that can march  _and_  fight? 12,000 warriors, not to mention Wun Wun," the former King-Beyond-the-Wall said. "The rest are children and old people. They'll be kept furthest away from the battle when it does come."

Sansa and Robb nodded.

"Then in addition to our own, together we'll have almost 34,000 troops," Ser Rodrik theorized. "That alone should be more than enough to put down the upstart Ramsay."

"So long as we ourselves don't become too overconfident," Ser Lucius mentioned. "In a war, the side with the greater numbers wins nine times out of ten. But in a  _real_  war, victory in battle is not always one through superior numbers. Take a look at Blackwater Bay for instance. Some of you fought alongside us that day. We held out for as long as we could before reinforcements arrived. So we must not let Ramsay Snow be  _that_  one out of 10. Be mindful of tactical strategies and cruel but effective traps, my lords. They could do a lot more harm than his soldiers."

"Then it's best we mobilize our soldiers as fast as possible."

A Stark messenger soon arrived towards the center. "Pardon me, Lord Stark," he apologized. "But Ramsay's close by demanding a parley."

"He's here already?" Sansa said surprised.

Robb readied himself and called for his horse. Once mounting, the Young Wolf prepped to leave when he noticed Jon and Sansa joining him with Brienne and Lucius and a dozen Stark loyalists.

"Sansa, you don't have to come with me if you don't want to," he suggested.

Sansa shook her head no. "I'll be kept at a safe distance when the battle actually starts, Robb, don't you worry about me. But Ramsay hurt my friend Jeyne terribly. I'll never forgive him for that. So I only have one request for you. All of you."

"And that is?"

The Wolf Queen sat tall on her horse, her voice firm and attentive. "Ramsay Snow abducted and brutalized one of our own, a cherished friend whom I consider a sister. He skinned our own people alive for his sick, twisted amusement; and thereafter had the nerve to raise his banners in rebellion and declare himself a King—titles that do not belong to him. So long as Ramsay lives, the North will never be safe." She turned to face her fellow Northmen. "When the time for battle comes, we will fight as one. The North is at its strongest when we are united. The North and its people are family. In the winter, we protect and look after one another. When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. In the name of King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to summon your banners and ready yourselves for the coming battle. Should we win the day, I ask that you seize Ramsay Snow to await the King's justice."

The Northern lords hollered in agreement and immediately moved to gather their forces; Robb and Jon both observed Sansa closely, noticing how far she's come since moving south to become Queen. Ser Lucius and Brienne mounted their horses and strode out with Sansa, Robb and a few Stark-loyalist delegates.

Nearby, a hooded individual observed from a distance—polishing her longsword Dawn with a wet stone.

"So it will come to this," she said. "I must prepare for battle then."

* * *

**Beyond the outskirts…**

* * *

Sansa sat mounted atop a gray palfrey beside Robb, Jon, the Greatjon, Mance, Tormund, Olyvar, Brienne, Podrik, Lucius and the Mormont sisters Dacey and Lyanna with several Stark bannermen sitting on horseback behind them. All of them were waiting. It was a risky move for the Wolf Queen herself, but even she knew that no one is to attack the other during a parley—though Sansa had carefully planned her options beforehand. After a few minutes of waiting, they notice a group of Bolton soldiers approaching on horseback behind Ramsay, Harald and Smalljon.

"You don't have to be here," Robb said to his sister.

"Yes, I do," Sansa reiterates her stance.

Ramsay wickedly gave a vile grin. "Ah, so you're Queen Sansa Stark. Wonderful! It seems the rumors about you weren't entirely exaggerated. You  _are_  the most beautiful woman in the Seven Kingdoms," he turned to Robb. "Now, dismount and step down before me. Admit your shortcomings and surrender your army, your claim to Winterfell and your rights to all the North to the Red Kings of the Dreadfort." He turned to Jon. "In return, I will pardon you for deserting the Night's Watch," he turned to the gathering lords. "I will pardon your lords for turning their backs on their own kin."

Sansa felt her skin crawl with disgust. Lucius and Brienne all rode to their Queen's side in a defensive stance, readying themselves for anything.

_'Turns your eyes elsewhere, cur,'_  Brienne thought viciously.

Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost growled and snarled angrily at the Bolton bastard as he continued issuing more ultimatums; Robb and Jon continued staring at Ramsay.

"Come, Young Wolf. Come, bastard," he continued. "Why lead those pour souls into senseless slaughter? There's no need for a battle. Get off your horses and kneel. I'm a man of mercy."

"'Mercy'? Like you were 'merciful' to my men? To Jeyne Poole, the daughter of our father's steward?" Robb spat back. "Don't kid yourself thinking yourself in the right,  _bastard_. You're not even a Bolton, just a Snow."

"We know all about you, Snow," Olyvar suggested. "I might be of the North, but even Northmen hasn't forgotten that stunt you pulled back at Winterfell.  _We_ , on the other hand, still haven't forgotten nor forgiven how you sent your lackey Locke to try to kill the King,  _bastard_."

Ramsay grew angry at being again reminded of his baseborn origins; feeling himself insulted at not being given the respect he felt he deserves. Ramsay considers himself a true Bolton despite his birth and still remains highly resentful of his bastardy. There was a tone in their voices Ramsay did not like, no more than he liked being unable to escape the unfortunate truth.

Jon stepped forward. "There's no need for a battle," he suggested. "Thousands of men don't need to die. Only one of us. Let's end this the old way. One-on-one combat."

Ramsay chuckled. "I keep hearing stories about you, bastard," he pointed at him. "The way people in the North talk about Jon Snow, one of the greatest swordsmen who ever walked." He turned to Robb. "And of course everyone knows about the legend of Robb Stark, the Young Wolf; how he wins every single battle he's ever fought in, how he can't be killed. Oh, let's not forget the stories of him riding into battle on the back of a giant direwolf or turn into one. Ahoooo~!" he laughs mocking the howling of a wolf.

The Starks did not appreciate snide jabs or the mockery of one of their own flesh and blood from those they deem a threat.

"Maybe you are that good like the rumors suggest you are, maybe not," he continued. "I don't know if I'd beat you conventionally. But your adherence to honor and noble nature are what hold you back. Easy to taunt, easy to trick. They are your biggest weaknesses. House Bolton has none of these things. We don't care about appearing noble or honorable nor do we care about the rules of decency. Sure, you have the larger army – there are other ways to win a battle."

"Will your men want to fight for you when they hear  _you_  won't fight for them?" Jon rebuked him.

The humor left Ramsay's face before recomposing himself, waving a finger at him. "Oooh, he's good. He's very good." He says turning to Robb. "Tell me, will you let your house die because you're too proud to back down?"

"Who says this has anything to do with pride?" Sansa countered. "The North who remembers who united it even if some don't. The North remembers who defended it and the North remembers who wrong us. Torture, rape, murder… the North has no place for people like you, not after what you've done to Jeyne."

"Ooh, did I hurt your friend's precious little feelings?" he mocked. "Now, if you want to—"

Sansa abruptly cut him off. "You're going to die tomorrow, Snow. Sleep well."

"Just you wait because I'm gonna take your head myself, you rat-fuck son of a bitch," Olyvar hissed.

And like that, Sansa turns her horse and galloped away with Lucius, Brienne and Olyvar in tow behind her. Robb and Jon both stared directly at Ramsay, the Smalljon and Harald; the air filled with overwhelming intensity at being face-to-face with each other.

"Hah-hah, she's a fine woman – your sister," Ramsay remarked. "I look forward to having  _her_  in my bed when the day is done."

That was it. Robb was done. "You're going to wish you never said that, Snow," he warned threateningly. "We will fight, but  _you_  will die. Winter is coming for all of you."

Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost growled and snapped their jaws shut before turning around with Robb, Jon and the other Stark loyalists back to Winterfell. This was it; the gloves were off. The North would fight another battle, but on their own turf.

Back on the ride to Winterfell, Lucius and Olyvar spoke with one another about strategy.

"If he was smart, he'd stay inside the walls of the Dreadfort and wait us out," Olyvar said.

Lucius shook his head. "Even a sane man knows if the other Northern houses sense weakness on his part, they'll have nothing to fear from him. But still we mustn't let our guard down for a split second and again be mindful of whatever traps he has in store. Fear is his power."

"It's not his men that worry me," Tormund added. "It's his horses. I know what mounted knights can do to us. Stannis cut through us like piss through snow."

"Then we'll dig trenches all along our flanks so Ramsay's cavalry won't hit us from the sides."

"Good."

Mance chimed in. "It's crucial that we let him charge at us. If we let him buckle our center, he'll give chase. Then we'll have  _him_ surrounded on three sides."

Brienne noticed Sansa unveiling a rolled piece of paper. "Your Grace?" she asked.

"So you've all met the enemy and drawn up your battle plans in a short span of time," Sansa observed. "Olyvar, you mentioned Ramsay isn't the one who falls into traps but lays them? He's done this before during the Second Greyjoy Rebellion?"

"Yes, Your Grace," he nodded. "He's good at playing with people's minds. I don't know your brothers that well, but I believe Ramsay will want to make Lord Stark and Jon to make a mistake. That alone will give him an opportunity, one that could decide the outcome."

"Then I'll need you and Ser Lucius to go with my brothers. Make sure they don't do anything stupid."

Lucius and Olyvar looked at each other and nodded. "We understand, Your Grace," they acknowledge.

Brienne rode alongside Sansa with Pod. "Your Grace, I don't like leaving you alone at Winterfell. Should the fighting ever reach us, I'll protect you. We all will."

Sansa nodded. "I understand. And thank you, Brienne. All of you." She said calmly.  _'Now… let's do what needs to be done, and correct my ancestor's mistake.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, the stage is set for a new Battle of the Bastards—only this time Robb Stark and Jon Snow will be participating in the battle. As both armies will be soon set to clash, will the battle end up in a conventional warfare or gruella–style hit-and-run tactics? You guys know the mindsets of both the Starks and Boltons, so you can possibly decide which side ends up taking a beating from the other. A lot of Stark favorites have been following me closely but take a closer look at the amount of Northern houses who remain loyal and committed to the Stark cause.
> 
> And also, you NEVER EVER do what Ramsay Snow just did: threaten to take Sansa as a prize in front of her two older brothers. Especially not in front of Robb because that to him is an automatic death sentence. Big brother is fiercely protective of his sister.
> 
> Stay tuned for more updates and keep a close watch out for the new Battle of the Bastards. Thoughts? Let me know.


	116. Battle for the North (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stark vs. Bolton

**In the North…**

* * *

Ser Lucius and Tormund observe a large yet strange mix of wildlings and Stark loyalists marching downrange carrying the sigil of various northern houses they represent. Within a few moments, the battle for control of the North was about to begin. The Old Bull calculatingly determined that with the addition of the Free Folk, the Starks culminated a near 34,000 host – including three direwolves and one giant. Under the command of Robb Stark and his half-brother Jon Snow, Lucius oversaw efforts to not overextend their supply lines and helped strategize a series of battle plans with the Young Wolf.

Although not from the North, the Old Bull understood that both House Stark and House Bolton knew every inch of the terrain; and with the heavy snow battering against his armor, the winter cold would not slow them down.

"Our scouts report that morale is high," Lucius informed the wildling. "So long as we have the momentum on our side, the Bolton forces will have no choice but to surrender – provided of course Her Grace's brothers stick to the plan. What of the wildlings?"

"I've never seen these Bolton fuckers fight. And they've never seen the Free Folk fight," Tormund replied. "So yes, I think we've got a strong chance. This many fighters against that measly little band? Give me a few dozen and we'll have more steel."

"That Mance Rayder of yours had a big speech ready?"

"Him? Ha! Nah, no that's not how Mance approaches a battle. We followed him because we believed in him. At first I thought he was the man to lead us through the Long Night. But I was wrong. He gave up his title as King-Beyond-the-Wall after Jon Snow stood up for us and let us through the Wall. He believed we could somehow not only defeat the Long Night, but coexist? Hard to believe it when I say it out loud like that."

"Even though Jon is a bastard?"

"Who cares if he's a bastard or not?" Tormund remarked as he drank a swill of goat's milk. "Bah, I need a good drink before a fight. You want some? I have a jug of sour goat's milk stronger than any of that grape water you southern twats like sucking on."

"Sounds good, but I prefer to keep a clear head."

"So what do you do all night?"

"I formulate strategies and tactics; been doing so for more than 40 years. Best be sure nothing is left amiss."

***AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!***

The Old Bull heard the blasts of the war horns echoing throughout the war camp; this was the signal for the Stark loyalists to begin the march on the Dreadfort. Although the skies were dark and vision was intensely limited due to the icy cold blizzards, the Northern soldiers emerged from their tents—gripping the handles of their swords and lit flaming torches to light their way.

Robb rode atop his horse with Grey Wind at his side.

"Lord Stark," Lucius greeted.

The Young Wolf nodded in acknowledgment. "Prepare to form up. It's time," he said. "Jon and I will go on ahead with our personal vanguard. Ser Lucius, you and Ser Olyvar will both command our flanks. Have your archers provide cover fire and light our way. Remember, the North can be a very dangerous place to any southerner."

"So we've been made keenly aware several times already. Stay alert and keep an eye out for traps."

Robb nodded; Jon had already retrieved Ghost and fastened Longclaw to his waist. Not too far behind was the Greatjon Umber, who was already bellowing out commands to his troops.

"All right, on me boys! We're moving out!" he hollered.

* * *

**At the battlefield…**

* * *

The field lay before the large Northern host which was about 400 meters long with a small valley bordered by two hills peaked with trees. At one end is a forest of high trees; at the other is a ridge with a reasonably soft incline that plateaus and stretches out to the Hornwood forest in the distance. It was still dark out and the blizzard was making things a bit harder for any of the Stark armies to see.

It would take time for them to make it to the Dreadfort; the horses neighed and some of the men's feet sank in the snow banks. Olyvar felt his teeth chatter. He wasn't used to this kind of weather, though Ser Lucius remained focused on the primary objective. House Stark was always right in the end: 'Winter is Coming' was more than just a noble house motto, it served as a warning to the rest of the Seven Kingdoms.

The Old Bull oversees the longbow archers on the flanks, standing within a defensive caltrop-shaped structure. Thousands of archers and infantrymen are each divided into different battalions with only cavalry standing guard on both left and right flanks. Mance and Tormund strode atop their horses at the ready, overseeing the 17,000 Free Folk infantry force that is one of the largest contingency. Wun Wun, however, remains as the centerpiece of the wildling infantry formation due to his massive height.

"Can't see a blasted thing in this weather," Olyvar complained.

Dacey stood her ground. "None of us can see, Ser Olyvar, but we Northmen know every inch of the terrain better than anyone else. So stay close if you wish to survive."

Olyvar felt three direwolves scouting on ahead; he hadn't seen Grey Wind in a battle since the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, but he hasn't seen Ghost or Shaggydog either. Ahead of him Robb, Jon, the Greatjon and Robett stood side-by-side with their own cavalry—each holding the banners of Mormont, Mazin, Hornwood, Manderly, Glover, Stark and Umber. Olyvar narrowed his eyes and moved his hand in front of his face to keep the harsh blizzard out of his sight—even the horses' muzzles had steam coming out from them. If it weren't for the Stark army sentries holding up lit torches, he would've easily gotten himself lost and freeze to death.

"Brrr! Now I see why northerners sometimes wear fur cloaks."

"With food and resources so scarce, it's only natural for our people to stick together to brave the winter," the Lady of Mormont explained.

Further ahead, Robb and Jon noticed something wrong in the distance and stopped abruptly, prompting the Greatjon to do the same.

"All units halt!" he bellowed at the forces behind him.

The Stark army ceased their march upon exiting the Hornwood forest, but what they saw in front of them would be forever burned into their brains for many years to come. Everyone stands stock-still, staring across the battlefield as Robb and Jon rode their destriers through to stand out in front. Although the Dreadfort was in sight, they saw X-shaped pyres resembling the sigil of House Bolton are burning. Attached to each of them are several bodies of flayed men, strapped upside down.

Dozens of Stark men stood still and look unnerved at the gruesome sight; such a fearsome, inhuman cruelty elevating to a satanic myth invoking dread. This was a whole other level of evil, psychological taunting. All of was designed to invoke terror. One of the Hornwood troops began to slowly back away before Dacey placed her hand on him – stopping him in his tracks.

"Steady now," she said calmly.

Olyvar narrowed his eyes, peering into the distance trying to see beyond the blizzard and the X-shaped pyres lighting up.

"Crucified flayed bodies roasting over eight large bonfires. Such twisted form of intimidation is something only Ramsay could have possibly thought of," Robb speculated.

"Been knockin' down enemy strongholds for 35 years, but this is by far the worst I've ever seen," the Greatjon implied.

"Try the massacre at Hardhome," Jon interjected.

Ser Lucuis rode forth cautiously, hand grappling the handle of his spiked mace. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost sniffed the air in near perfect unison and began emanating a low, menacing growl; the three direwolves tucked their ears back and displayed their teeth with their tails pointing straight.

' _Something's wrong…_ ' Lucius suspected.

"What's going on up there?" a Mazin soldier shouts.

"Storm's messing with— I can't see!" complained a Manderly mounted knight.

Robb rode a bit further until his horse stepped in a rather strange black sticky substance and began rearing itself back in surprise. The Young Wolf hushed his destrier and dismounted to investigate. He knelt down in the snow and pressed three fingers into the substance—hot, sticky viscous maternal… but when Robb smelled it he immediately turned his head away in disgust.

"Pitch," he called out.

Theon approached and leaned over to investigate. "Why would pitch be doin'—"

"Arrow!" shouted a Free Folk, pointing towards the sky.

Robb and Jon looked up and saw a faint, orange-tinted arrow flying through the air from the right flank nearly two-hundred meters away. Ser Lucius and Olyvar noticed it too, though the Old Bull's mind rapidly analyzed the situation as the arrow got closer and closer.

"Pitch…. No, fire!" he realized before shouting "AMBUSH!"

***SHUBOOOO!***

It was revealed to be a flaming-tipped arrow which landed within close vicinity of the black viscous liquid which immediately went up in flames—startling the Stark loyalists, the Free Folk and the horses. As a wall of flames went up all around them consuming the trees, confusion and panic spread throughout the mobilized army as they were taken by surprise by the sudden fire attack. The blizzard winds didn't help much either and only helped to further fan the flames and spread everywhere.

Further away, off in the distance, banners for the Boltons, Karstarks, Whitehills, Smalljon Umber's and all the other quisling houses abound—watching the Hornwood forest go up in flames. Lord Harald of House Karstark sat on his horse at the front of the cavalry, war lance in hand. The Bolton cavalry weren't as large as the Starks', but what they lacked in numbers they made up for in clever tactical strategy and deceitful traps.

On the ground level, Smalljon of House Umber—long after having been banished from Last Hearth—stood with the infantrymen eager to separate some people from their limbs. He takes a huge pull off a leather-covered flask of something very alcoholic. Nearby was a set of horse hooves walking through the Bolton ranks, past infantry, past cavalry. The winds were blinding to the Starks, but with the Boltons on the opposite end they could clearly see them. None of them had lit torches so they were able to easily disguise themselves.

Sitting atop his horse with glee, Ramsay Snow watched from afar as the Hornwood forest—now completely on fire—and observed with grim satisfaction of the Stark forces scattering throughout the area upon being taken completely by surprise.

Smalljon and Harald grin. They like this surprise attack.

"If this keeps up, the fire will soon engulf our entire army!" Theon exclaimed. "Robb, we can't stay here! We have to get out now!"

Robb coughed. "Move out! Everyone, get out of the forest!" he ordered.

The Stark loyalist infantry, cavalry and Free Folk scattered to get out of the raging inferno – a great charge across a vast, snow-filled field wolf banners flapping, but the flames were quick to spread and consume whatever nearby dry tree and leaves it came into contact to. Dozens of men either fell to the flames or were crushed when the enflamed trees collapsed and fell on top of them.

Mance and Tormund weren't going to go out like this. With a rebel yell, they signal their wildling forces to converge on them. The Free Folk were just as startled as they were angry. Wun Wun runs forward and knocks over branches and dead oak.

During the escape into the open field, the Stark armies felt their feet sinking into deep snowbanks and tripped over each other before sliding down the hills. Manderly cavalry had a hard time keeping their horses from slipping; Dacey yanked back the reins of her horse harness, the stallion neighed and steered its legs up to keep itself from falling. The scene was just pure pandemonium; dark skies, a raging blizzard storm and a wall of fire surrounding them. Within the first hour, more than 800 Stark loyalists were killed and 500 either wounded or missing.

Ser Lucius and Olyvar both recover from their spill in the snow, their faces covered with ash and soot during the escape. When Robb and Jon get back on their feet and sprint back towards their horses as Theon and the Greatjon both convened on their location. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost shook off the snow and ash, turning their heads towards their attackers and snarling—the direwolves had keen eyesight that worked effectively in the darkness due to keen night vision, but their sense of hearing was just as sharp.

Lucius turns towards Dacey.

"Lady Mormont!" he called out.

Dacey noticed him in the snow. "We're scattered pretty badly, but there's bound to be more of us! Don't worry about us, old man! We're tougher than we look!"

Nodding, the Old Bull turned with his mace drawn as Olyvar unsheathed his blade. Then it got even darker again. Looking straight up, Lucius noticed several thin, dark objects being repeatedly shot into the sky. Once the clouds moved aside the give room to the bright, full moon did it provide enough light for the Old Bull to see what would soon be raining down on them.

"Tuck tail!" he warned.

A few nearby Northmen were lucky enough to hear Ser Lucius's warning. 'Tuck tail' was another warning for 'incoming arrows.' Raising whatever shields or defenses they could hide behind, a hail of arrows came raining down against them. Those who were furthest away or weren't able to react in time felled by the dozens. Arrows planted themselves into the ground a few yards apart from each other.

"Bolton cowards," Tormund growled in frustration.

On the other side, the Smalljon smiles as he drinks, finding the scene to be quite entertaining with Ramsay smiling beside him.

_'Perfect. Right where I want them to be,'_  he thought with arrogant confidence. He walks back to his horse in no hurry and then nods towards the Bolton archers.

"Nock arrows!" the captain yells.

The Bolton archers nock arrows.

"Draw!"

***STRETCHING!***

They draw. Ramsay swings back into the saddle of his horse in time to watch. Harald looks to Ramsay, with an expression on his face wondering when they'd get a chance to fight. But Ramsay is still holding a psychotic look, watching the Starks getting picked off one by one as more waves of arrows flying through the air.

"Loose!"

***THWANG!***

***SCHHWAFF!***

Robb and Jon duck for cover as a wave of Bolton arrows land all around them; an arrow drills through the neck of both their horses. Both animals whine in agony and quickly go down, nearly crushing both the Young and White Wolves beneath them. Ramsay turns to the Karstark host and nods at them.

"Now," he orders.

"Cavalry! Charge!"

Out goes the joint Karstark-Bolton cavalry down the hill towards the Stark loyalists. They had lost much of their ground forces—infantry and cavalry—but still retained a formidable host. Robb looked up just in time to see the enemy cavalry unit descending from their vantage point and turns to the Manderly commander.

"Ser Wendel, incoming cavalry on the horizon!" the Young Wolf shouted.

The heir of White Harbor, Ser Wendel, rallied his unit and lowered his lance. "Cavalry, converge on my location!" he ordered. "Spears out! Ready? Charge!"

Ser Lucius calls the charge. "Go! Go! Go! Follow your commander!"

What consisted of the Stark cavalry rushed to get back on their horses and pushed forward – a great charge across the field. Now that they were back on their feet, the Free Folk were ready and eager to shed some blood.

"Free Folk!" Mance ordered. "Run and fight! Show 'em how we wage war!"

"Rrrraahhh!" Wun Wun roared and runs forward to join his wildlings. Despite his size, the giant is fast.

The bulk of the Stark loyalists then forced a charge across the field towards the Bolton cavalry. Robb, Theon and Jon each stagger to their feet and traded glances with each other; thousands of Bolton cavalry galloped towards them, lances leveled. All three of them readied themselves for the bloodiest battle the North had ever seen.

"Am I your brother? Now and always?" Theon asks.

Robb nods. "Now and always."

"Then let's take as many fuckers down with us," Jon boldly declared.

Robb unsheathes his sword from his scabbard, Jon draws Longclaw and readies himself while Theon drew his bowstring back—aiming his arrow straight at the enemy. The sound of pounding hooves and war cries is so loud that the Stark cavalry swoops past all three, colliding with the Bolton cavalry. The impact was massive: horse on horse, rider on rider. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost all lunged at their targets, knocking them off their horses and tearing into their throats.

Olyvar held his own in the snow, swinging his blade to decapitate a dislodged Bolton rider. "Yaaah!" he shouted. "Come on, you fucks! Bring it on!"

Ser Lucius fought off a dozen men, bashing his mace into one's skull until it caved into the bone with a sickening crack/crunch. Despite his old age, the Old Bull was still as agile and maneuverable.

"We may as well be taking shits here," he panted. "No way do we plan on letting the young'uns have all the fun!"

As more die the pile of dead men and horses is becoming a feature of battlefield geography, blocking forward motion.

* * *

**At one of Stannis's camps…**

* * *

Stannis knew his forces were trapped in an icy blizzard; Davos observed his Lord of Dragonstone's men as they cough and huddle around each other as the violent snowstorm battered the cold, weary Baratheon soldiers. Icicles form on several tent flaps, solidifying the encampment. The Onion Knight knew it would be quite some time before the storm finally subsided, but by that time chances are they'd run out of food and the horses would freeze to death before everyone did.

Davos stepped inside Stannis's tent; the Lord of Dragonstone stood next to a lit brazier. He didn't acknowledge his presence, just continued glancing down at a detailed geographical map of the North.

"Our food storages are running low," he informed Stannis. "We can't open the supply line until the snow clears."

Stannis huffed. "What else?" he asks.

"We still have a hard march and we won't be marching anywhere in this weather?"

"And?"

"We should head back to Castle Black when the snow clears."

Stannis shook his head and turned around. "Winter is coming, Ser Davos. Those aren't just Stark words, it's a fact. If we march back to Castle Black, we winter at Castle Black. And who can say how many years this winter will last."

"It's better to wait for an opening to present itself rather than risk everything."

"I  _will_  risk everything. And the only way we go is forward and only forward, whether we march to victory or we march to defeat."

Melisandre soon enters the tent. "I just received a vision, my lord; a great battle in the snow, one that is underway as we speak."

Stannis didn't look at her. "I've trusted in the visions and prophecies you see in the flames for years."

"You saw it yourself," she insisted. "Trust yourself."

"And you, do you trust yourself?"

This is a much more problematic question for the red priestess than it once was, to be sure. She is not a supremely confident seer she used to be. Melisandre did not budge, but she refused to allow Stannis to see how much her faith's wavering at this moment.

"I trust in the Lord," she answered. "I… interpret His signs."  _'As well as I can.'_

Stannis sensed her hesitation. "Are you sure?" he pressed.

The red priestess brushed her fingertips along the map. "I have seen myself walking along the battlements of Winterfell. I have seen the flayed men banners lowered to the ground of the Dreadfort," she flips the Bolton pieces on the board. "I have shown you the power of King's blood. The Usurper Renly Baratheon. The Usurper Balon Greyjoy."

Davos felt suspicious. "Trying to sacrifice another soul to this fire god of yours again?" he said sarcastically.

"You think that's all we do, Ser Davos?" she countered. "The High Priestess of Asshai has… contacted me."

"How recent?"

"Just now."

"What did she say?"

Melisandre glanced outside the tent. "There is another way to melt the snow and move Stannis' army forward… one that requires no sacrifice. But basic instructions that were provided to me in High Valyrian—a language only I understand and can translate."

"Then why didn't you tell us sooner?" the Onion Knight asked frustrated.

"If I knew this when we first met, then I wouldn't have said anything. Do you still doubt me? After all that you've seen?" She was in no mood to argue. "You wanted another way, Ser Davos? Here it is. It must be done before the Long Night begins. Only the Lord's destined ones can lead the living against the dead."

As the red priestess stepped out of Stannis' tent, only Davos and Stannis followed close behind her – curious as to her earlier plural statement of 'the Lord's destined ones.' The Onion Knight still had his reservations, but the look on Stannis' face was one of confusion and inner frustrations; the last few years since he converted to the Lord of Light, Stannis believed he himself was the destined Chosen One as per the Lord of Light's prophecy. To hear now that there could be more than one other than himself, it threw him off balance.

Melisandre knelt before the snow, unmoved by the freezing temperatures as more of Stannis' men gathered around her still cold.

"Āeksiot Ōño, dohaeragon aōha tikor se aōhos ōñoso īlōn jehikās! (Lord of Light, aid your servant and cast your light upon us!)" she recited. "Āeksiot Ōño, se ñuhoso gō īlva iksis kelitan. Ōños se ñuhoso se dohaeragon jemagon īlva naejot mēre hen aōha Iderēbagon Mēre. Kesrio syt bantis zōbrie issa se ossȳngnoti lēdys! (Lord of Light, the path before us is blocked. Light the way and help lead us to one of your Chosen Ones. For the night is dark and full of terrors!)"

***SHUBOOOO!***

In that instant, flames shot up from beneath the ground and began to quickly melt the snow impeding their path forward. A couple of soldiers were startled and backed up in surprise; the horses were startled and couldn't back away. Stannis and Davos both watched as the flames began to quickly move downwards to create a pathway to the south.

Icicles quickly melted down from the tents, refracting the flame's intense heat. Much of a rivulet of snow had melted away. Once the way forward was clear, Melisandre stood back up and the flames dissipated. She was somewhat pleased, somewhat perplexed.

"See? The Lord of Light has made good on his promise," she demonstrated. "His fires have melted the snows away. The way ahead is clear."

Stannis does not look at her, but rather tightens the straps on his epaulets, puts on two gauntlets and straps on his sword belt—pulling his sword partway from his scabbard, checks its edge before returning it to its scabbard.

"What else has your God shown you?" he asks simply.

Melisandre's eye contact broke momentarily. "The Lord has shown me a forest burning, a castle besieged, Bolton banners burning. But as we speak one of the Lord's favored candidates are fighting in the battle. Should this one be ignored, it would bring great misfortune in the long-term."

Stannis marches through his camp; although the way forward was cleared, it was still cold but didn't let it get to him. Melisandre and Davos are by his side.

"General," Stannis orders, "prepare to form up. I want the men on the march at once."

The Baratheon General nodded. "Understood, my lord. Where do you want us to go?" he asked.

"We march on the Dreadfort. It's time for us to join the fray."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guys, the Battle for the North has begun (aka the new Battle of the Bastards) and will once again be split into two parts. Robb Stark and Jon Snow versus Ramsay Snow, Harald Karstark and Smalljon Umber; the Bolton bastard has made the first move with a surprise fire attack on the much larger Stark army at the Hornwood forest before raining arrows down on them and sending in the cavalry. Think how the battle will turn out quite differently than the TV series? Thoughts? Let me know.


	117. Battle for the North (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword." --Lord Eddard Stark, c. 298 AC

**At the battlefield…**

* * *

The Stark and Bolton forces continue littering the snowy fields with more piles of bodies; as the Hornwood forests continued burning, the snowstorm winds began steadily dying down. The winds were not blowing as fiercely as they once were, finally allowing the Starks to gain greater visibility. But Robb and Jon still mustered every fiber of their being to dodge, weave and survive the chaos surrounding them as panicked horses careen from every angle and barrage of arrows fell from the sky. Grey Wind, Shaggydog and Ghost continue lunging through the battlefield taking down as many Bolton soldiers as they could.

From out of nowhere four Bolton soldiers run at them. Robb and Jon make short work of them before another frenzied soldier, only for them to be picked off by Theon's arrows; Ser Lucius and Olyvar stand shoulder-to-shoulder fending off waves of Bolton soldiers.

"There's no end to them!" Olyvar exclaimed.

Ser Lucius bashed one with his mace. "The fire attack, the storm, Ramsay's archers on the vantage point… That bastard came prepared."

Through the smoke from the fires Lucius swings at the men trying to kill him. Takes a hit, kills the man who landed it and uses another as a human shield before tossing him to the ground. The Old Bull turns to see a Bolton infantryman lunging at him and readies for the inevitable impact, but someone jumps in front of him and thrusts forward sword in hand—driving their blade through the Bolton's neck.

Lucius recognized the flowing long dark hair and the pommel of the sword and the pale as milkglass metalwork.

"You," he acknowledged.

Ariyana herself had arrived to the battlefield wielding two swords and intercepted the Bolton soldier bound for Lucius. "I swore I'd make amends, Ser Lucius, and I intend to make up for the mistakes I made," she said.

"We'll worry about that later, child. More inbound!"

Redirecting her attention towards the fight, the Sword of the Morning danced and maneuvered through waves of Bolton soldiers. Theon raised his bow and took aim, pulling back on the bowstring and released, sending one of his arrows soaring through the air with such velocity and hit a Bolton soldier in the eye. He drew another arrow and pulled back and released again. Without a doubt, when it comes to archery Theon Greyjoy was an expert marksman.

Tormund and Mance each engage at Bolton infantry at the battle line and pressed their advantage, swinging hard once, twice, three times before finally running them through. Wun Wun swats a mounted Bolton and his horse out of the way, and is quickly followed by Free Folk hunters, shooting arrows as they keep a firm footing on the snowy hillside.

Ramsay watches as the Stark forces adapting to their situation and decided to begin the next phase. He turns to Smalljon and gives him his approval.

"It's time. Go," he said.

_'About fucking time,'_ Smalljon grins, eager and yearning to join the fray. He turns to his infantry. "Who owns the North?" he calls out.

"We do!" his men answer.

"I can't hear you! Who owns the North?"

"We do!"

"Show me!"

With that, Smalljon raises his sword in the air and turns running towards the battlefield leading by example. The infantry howls and follows after him. Robb swings his sword and slices through a Bolton's throat before noticing the Smalljon's rush. The Young Wolf turns to Greatjon.

"Lord Umber," he calls out. "Take most of our men and retreat deep into the woods! I'll have a smaller contingent make the enemy chase us!"

The Greatjon drove his blade deep into a Bolton soldier's chest cavity and withdrew it to look back at the Young Wolf. He grinned as he realized what the Stark lord was up to and loudly bellowed at his marauders.

"Fall back to the trees, boys!" the Greatjon roared.

In droves, a much larger fraction of the Stark loyalist army fled into the Hornwood forest—taking special care to avoid the burning trees and intense flames. Ser Lucius, Olyvar and Ariyana looked behind them as the larger host seemingly fled; the Frey knight and Sword of the Morning were wondering what the Young Wolf was thinking by deciding to send most of his forces fleeing into the woods—leaving only a smaller host behind as Smalljon began using the body pile as a natural divider in the center of the field, diverting half his men to one side and half to the other.

Smalljon himself, along with a bodyguard of 10 men, felt very confident in himself and charged up the hill of bodies. Covered from head to toe in mud and blood, Robb and Jon fought off their attackers and steadily took several steps backwards for more leeway. Wun Wun howls a warning at what he sees: hundreds and hundreds of Bolton infantry carrying a six-foot tall rectangular shield. The Young Wolf saw they were attempting a lethal double envelopment maneuver and ordered at his men.

"Fall back into the woods!" Robb shouted. "Make them chase us!"

Thousands broke from the safety of their defensive caltrops and move back up the hill towards the Hornwood forest. Stark archers on the upper snow banks take some of them out before the Bolton infantry could set up their circle formation – one-by-one they hauled ass keeping them from creating an impenetrable wall. Jon, Mance, Tormund and Wun-Wun move towards the hill and climb, though they had noticed Smalljon's men were quickly catching up with them.

"Ghost! Come to me, Ghost!" Jon called out.

The albino direwolf tore a Bolton troop's throat out before perking its ears up at the sound of its master's call. Ghost hoped off and dug its claws into the snow and climbed up the hill after Jon Snow before Smalljon could reach the animal.

"With me, lads! Break their lines!" shouted Ser Lucius.

Ramsay watches on his slope; his face curling with displeasure at the envelopment being hindered by the Stark archers. The shields from the attempted pincer movement kept hitting the hill and were forced to be curved upwards to be dragged, briefly exposing their legs to arrows or small kicks to send them back down the hill. That didn't deter Smalljon from frustratingly carving his way through with his greatsword. He's a badass of the first order, the strongest man on the field who isn't Wun Wun or Greatjon, and he's in his element.

Tormund sees this beast cutting down his people. "That all you got, fucker?" he taunted. "My grandma hits harder than you!"

Smalljon saw red and gave chase, prompting Jon, Mance, Tormund and the remaining forces to flee deeper into the woods—the bearded wildling hurling vicious insults and degenerative taunts at the bearded Northmen. At the epicenter of the feigned retreat, Robb and Jon made sure the opposing army pursued them deep into the Hornwood forest. The flames were still hot and consumed almost everything in its path, but because the winds stopped the fire did not spread.

Outside, Ramsay felt himself smirk in triumph—believing he had emerged victorious over the much larger Stark armies. However, once the smaller Stark contingent was in the center – Robb glanced at his left and right side.

"Lord Umber, Lady Mormont! Now!" he shouted.

_That_  was the signal for the hidden Northmen to strike.  _That_  was a hush in the night, moonlight and a thick carpet of snow and ash underfoot. Grey Wind threw its head back and howled; the sound seemed to go right through the pursuing Bolton infantry and they froze midway in their chase. It was a terrible sound, a frightening sound.

***HAAroooooooooooooo!***

To the east, the trumpets of the Umbers roared with vengeance. To the west, the Mormonts leapt from the underbrush. To the north, the Stark host quickly turned around to face their pursuers and hit back. Men were shouting and horses rearing in the snow, ash and soot beneath them. The Hornwood forest let out its breath all at once as the bowmen, cavalry, infantrymen and spearmen Greatjon and Dacey hid in the trees let loose and the forest erupted with screams of men and horses. All around Smalljon, Manderly lancers routed his men behind him. A heartbeat, two, four and suddenly the Greatjon's riders emerge from the darkness beneath the trees.

Tormund took advantage of the distraction and manages to plunge his sword into the Smalljon's belly. This really pisses him off—causing him to grab Tormund and lift him off the ground and head-butts so hard Tormund's nose bursts open bloodily; and then again and again and again. The red-bearded wildling fights back as best he can, repeatedly punching at Smalljon's face but the big man took a sword through the belly, and punches aren't fazing him.

Fighting his way through Bolton soldiers, Jon bypassed their red X shields and pressed the counterattack. Wun Wun brushes off the Bolton soldiers armed with spears and rips off a Bolton shield to use it to swing at them—ignoring bearing speared like a woolly-mammoth by a select few. Yet the woods rang with echoes. The  _crack_  of a broken lance, the clash of swords, the cries of "Bolton" and "Stark" and "Red King!" and "Warden of the North!" rang throughout the area. Iron boots crunched in the snow, the woody sounds of swords clashed against oak shields and steel scrapped against steel.

The Bolton soldiers were taken completely off-guard by their situation; now they were in a giant problem. Wun Wun rose his foot and stomped down hard on one of them before grabbing one and smacking him against a tree. They knew it was only a matter of time now. The battle is lost.

Outside the forests, Ramsay could barely see what was going on but he could faintly hear the screams and shouts—whether from his own army or the Starks, he couldn't tell. He was busy having a moment of deep contentment, and in his contentment a war horn sounds in the distance which breaks him into a state of confusion.

***AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!***

Back in the forest, Smalljon continues beating down Tormund until the war horn broke his concentration. The instant of distraction is all Tormund needs to sink his teeth into Smalljon's ear.

"Gnnaaah!" Smalljon roars in pain.

Tormund quickly pulled back and ripped his ear off, causing Smalljon to release his grip on the wildling who grabs a dagger from his belt and stabs Smalljon's eyes like eggs before stabbing him repeatedly in the throat.

"Rrraah!" Tormund roars. "Die! Die! Die! Die!"

"To me! To me!" Mance shouted.

Ariyana and Lucius swing their weapons and cut down more Bolton soldiers, pleased that the feigned retreat/pincer movement pulled off in their favor. The Old Bull again hears war horns sounding off in the distance.

***AHooooooooooooooooooooooo!***

Robb and Jon turn to see the source of the war horn through the Hornwood forest: in the distance, charging down near the woods was a well-formed column of heavy cavalry. As they approached the middle of the battlefield, each mounted knight carried banners depicting a crowned black stag of Baratheon enclosed within a fiery red heart; an estimated 20,000 strong, galloping against the night sky as the flames lit their way forward.

Ramsay sees the Baratheon cavalry riding in to ruin his day and his face twisted with disgust, anger and frustration. High above the battlefield from the safety of the Lonely Hills, two spectators watch from horseback: Queen Sansa Stark and Ser Davos Seaworth.

Below them, the Baratheon cavalry rushes towards the Bolton rear as the Starks pushed them back out into the open, dissolving as if by centrifugal force as the Baratheon cavalry approaches, driving implacably forward. Once out into the open, Mance recognized the Baratheon knights and the same tactics used against him moments before; they're cutting down more Bolton troops until there was nothing left.

Ramsay sees everything unfolding before him from his vantage point. He might be furious, but he's smart: he knows when it's all falling apart. He turns and looks at both Robb and Jon, atop the body pile—both sides staring at each other from a distance. Both Stark and Snow glare at Ramsay. The Bolton bastard doesn't sit around and instead whistles to his two remaining generals before riding for the Dreadfort.

"Lord Stark!" Olyvar hollered. "Ramsay's getting away!" he points to the Bolton bastard.

Robb huffed. "I can see that. He knows his days are numbered, but wolves hunt in packs and look out for one another."

"Continue the pursuit!" Dacey shouted to her allies. "Don't let that bastard escape!"

Ramsay might have gotten a head start, but the Stark loyalists—despite having lost around 6,000 troops—gave chase with Robb, Jon, Theon, Olyvar, Lucius, Mance, Tormund and Wun Wun hot on his heels along with Grey Wind, Ghost and Shaggydog. By the looks of it, the giant was ahead of the pack.

The remaining Stark and Baratheon hosts finished what remained of the Bolton forces before joining in the pursuit.

* * *

**At the Dreadfort…**

* * *

Fleeing behind the walls of the Dreadfort, a reserve force of Bolton men remained behind. Once Ramsay and his generals entered, three guardsmen close and bar the gates behind them. Immediately Bolton archers man the walls and prepare their bows and arrows. Little by little, it became apparent their forces were utterly wiped out as the sounds dwindled and died. The Bolton men-at-arms knew they were next and planned to make their last stand.

Despite suffering a devastatingly major setback, Ramsay dismounts as a squire takes his horse's reins and leads it away just beyond the courtyard arch.

"Our army is gone," one of the Bolton generals exclaimed, looking around at the relatively few troops remaining.

Ramsay rolled his eyes and annoyingly shook his head. "It doesn't matter," he scoffed. "We have the Dreadfort. They don't have siege weapons to mount such an attempt. All we have to do is wait and—"

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

"We've got hostiles on the parameter!" one of the Bolton archer captains warned.

With a loud boom, something begins hitting the gate. Some commotion on the walls draws Ramsay's attention. Bolton archers nocked their arrows and started firing downwards from the battlements. Others manning the top signaled for more archers to come and help them.

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

***BAM!***

Ramsay watched the gate and understood what was coming next. One final bam later, a giant fist broke through the gate—made by Wun Wun's enormous hand. Seeing the giant's fist, Ramsay suspected the Stark army was not too far behind him and slowly backs away, leaving his increasingly terrified garrison to defend the gates alone. All the Bolton archers come around the battlements overlooking the main gate and fired down at the giant.

Despite the pain and discomfort, it didn't deter Wun Wun. The giant continued ramming against the gate with all his might, splintering its ancient wood and rattling with every impact. As the sun started to rise, everyone again heard the howling of Grey Wind, Ghost and Shaggydog. More holes appear as Wun Wun rammed through the gates with one final charge; his face is bloody through the shattered boards—but there was still some fight left in him. A series of thunderous footsteps entered through the gate into the courtyard.

Covered in dust and arrows, Wun Wun lets out a loud roar – causing Free Folk, Northern and Baratheon archers and infantrymen steaming in around him. The Bolton garrison realized they have no more cover to hide behind and the wildlings are renowned marksmen. Although the Bolton archers get a few Stark loyalists, the Bolton archers themselves are taken out by the Mormont troops.

Robb, Jon, Theon, Olyvar, Lucius, Mance, Tormund, Ghost, Shaggydog and Grey Wind enter the courtyard. As the Stark armies clean up the Dreadfort from inside, the Baratheons encircle the castle to prevent any attempts at escaping from the Boltons. They've got the ancestral seat of House Bolton completely surrounded on all sides. Even Myranda, Ramsay's psychotic lover, shot an arrow aimed at Dacey—narrowly missing the Lady of Bear Island's head before Dacey quickly closed the gap and bashed her head in with her Morningstar.

"Here I stand," she spat.

With no more archers remaining, Ramsay stands beneath the archway with the defaced slayed man relief. Bow in hand, quiver on his back. Robb and Jon are exhausted, with only hate keeping them standing. Theon raises his bow and points it at Ramsay, but his hand is stayed by Robb.

"I'll take him alone," he said menacingly. "Grey Wind, stay back."

The direwolf remained motionless as it still kept snarling at the Bolton bastard in front of it. Its litter siblings Ghost and Shaggydog did the same thing. Ramsay examined the men surrounding him, bow and arrows aimed directly at him, and with swords, axes and spears gripped tightly ready to attack on command.

Regardless, he continued smirking. "Your bastard brother suggested one-on-one combat, didn't he?" Ramsay said referring to Jon. "Well… I've reconsidered, Young Wolf. I think that sounds like a wonderful idea."

Robb takes an uneasy step towards Ramsay; not hearing or listening to Olyvar or Ser Lucius. He grips his longsword tightly before seeing Ramsay pulling his bow back; Robb quickly scoops up a nearby Mormont shield and pulls it up in the nick of time. Ramsay aims his arrow, nocks, draws and shoots. Robb catches the arrow with his shield, lowering the shield and kept his approach and gains focus as he goes.

"You terrorize my people for your own amusement…"

Ramsay pulls another arrow, more hurried this time. He nocks, draws, shoots. Robb blocks; the arrow punches through the shield, its point an inch from his face.

"You murdered my father's steward…"

Ramsay's breathing becomes more frantic. He pulls the arrow, nocks and shoots but misses as the Young Wolf continues to close the gap.

"Then you kidnap, brutalize and raped a friend you masqueraded as one of my sisters…"

Ramsay pulls another arrow, fumbling the nock and draws the bowstring back but by then Robb has advanced close enough.

***WHAM!***

"Winter has come for House Bolton," he said catching the shield upside Ramsay's head with the shield, sending his shot wide and dropping him to the ground.

Robb stands over Ramsay and pins him to the ground before physically beating him with the shield, tearing open his forehead, breaking his nose and a few ribs. Ramsay tasted bile and blood in his mouth as Robb continued pummeling him mercilessly. His face becomes mangled and covered in blood and mud.

But Sansa, Brienne, Stannis and Davos arrive through the broken gate. Hearing their horses, Robb and everyone turns to see them. He doesn't care about Stannis or Davos in this moment. He only looks at his sister. Sansa looks back at him and at Ramsay. Ramsay looks up at the blurry, silhouetted form of the Starks, breathing heavily from the exertion of the beating, staring down at him. Robb walks away as Ramsay blacks out.

By the day's end, some Stark men throw the Bolton banners off the Dreadfort. Stannis remained atop his horse eyeing the situation closely. Melisandre watches it happen from the walkway. One of her prophecies, fulfilled. Sansa, however, never took her eyes off the unconscious Ramsay Snow.

* * *

**The following morning…**

* * *

"You don't have to be here if you don't want to be, Your Grace," Brienne said to Sansa.

The Wolf Queen remained calm and composed. "No, I do," she replied.

Ramsay's battered head lolled on his neck, covered in blood from his beating. His hands were strapped tightly behind his back and his legs bound, meaning he could not flee nor could he avoid the fate in store for him. Twitching, coughing and groaning slightly, Ramsay slowly comes to. It takes a moment, but Ramsay realizes he is positioned on a tree limb used as a block. He briefly looks up to see Robb, Jon, Theon, Sansa and Stannis all staring down at him.

"Well," he coughed in a painful daze, "I suppose this is how it all comes to an end now?"

Sansa does not react or respond. She just watches him.

"Still sore over how I treated your little friend? Ooh, I know. Should've listened at how loud her screams were whenever I pushed myself inside her tight little cunt. Heh, no one at the Dreadfort slept a wink those nights."

Sansa still says nothing; Ramsay's attempts at making her lose control, to break her composure are a failure. Instead, she speaks with the calm of total certain.

"You brought this on yourself," Sansa said. "House Bolton is already gone. Their words, their name… Soon all memory of you will disappear."

Ramsay smiles weakly. " _My_  house.  _My_  words,  _my_  name," he replied defiantly.

"You're not a Bolton, you're a Snow," Olyvar was tempted to kick him in the face. "Now you won't escape justice this time."

"My legacy has already been cemented—"

"You murdered my niece, Walda. You killed her babe. Now you'll answer for your crimes."

The blood on Ramsay's face has not dried yet, not entirely. Some of it still glistens in the sunlight.

"Ramsay Snow, bastard of House Bolton," Sansa says with regal authority in her tone, "in the sight of Gods and men, the heinous crimes you've committed occurred on the North's soil. You will answer for a great deal. The North and its people will deal with your punish accordingly as per the traditions of the First Men." She turned to her older brother. "Robb?"

Robb motions a squire to bring him his wolf pelt/scabbard and draws his family's ancestral Valyrian greatsword Ice from it and bows his head over Ice. Dacey leans over to whisper in Olyvar's ear.

"Pay close attention," she whispers. "Here in the North, we hold dear our ancestors' tenants. 'He who passes the sentence should swing the sword'."

Olyvar nodded as Robb began the sentencing.

"In the name of Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die."

_'That monster doesn't even deserve to have a final word,'_  Olyvar cursed.

Taking a step backwards, Robb swung Ice with all his might through the air and brought the Valyrian greatsword down – cutting off Ramsay's head in a single blow. His body fell to the ground spraying the snow with the man's blood pouring all over the place, his fell rolled across the hill.

Ser Rodrik picked up Ramsay's severed head by his haggard hair and disgustedly handed it over to one of his men. "Put his head on a spike," he said dismissively.

As the gathered Northmen and Free Folk cheered in celebration over their triumphant victory for control of the North, relieved that House Bolton is permanently gone… only two individuals retained their composure: Sansa and Stannis.

Stannis watched the execution ceremony; and like he did with Jon Snow at Castle Black, he gave a small nod of approval. Sansa, meanwhile, placed a hand on her stomach. The bastard traitor Ramsay Snow has been punished for what he did to her best childhood friend, Jeyne Poole. With the Boltons extinct, the North would finally breathe a sigh of relief. She calmly massages her pregnant belly before turning around and looking in the direction of the sun shining upon Winterfell.

"I hope this brings you a sense of closure, Jeyne," Sansa says quietly to herself. "No doubt it'll take time for such wounds to heal, but you're not alone. I'll always protect you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so ends Part 2 of the Battle for the North (aka the new Battle of the Bastards). The Starks lose only 6,000 but the Boltons were absolutely demolished. Robb introduces the feigned retreat and Stannis' cavalry the pincer maneuver strategies. With House Bolton extinct, the North is better off without them. Think how this battle was played out with the Starks having had the much larger numbers? Was the fight at least good? Let me know.


	118. Bringing Down the Hammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Baratheon words are "Ours is the Fury"; the High Sparrow learns the Oathkeeper is also half-Lannister.

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Daveth moved several pieces of cyvasse on the board, all whilst keeping a close eye on his son Lyonel and daughter Cassana. So far the children were being well-behaved with Catelyn playing with her grandchildren. The Young Stag's headache had gone away, but his mind drifted to the conflict with the Sparrows. With the City Watch along with soldiers from the Baratheon and Lannister barracks patrolling the streets and atop the ramparts, the Tyrell and Royce volunteers had blended in the streets to keep a close eye on suspicious activities.

During playtime, however, the Prince tossed one of his toys and hit Cassana on the head—causing her to whine 'eeek' in surprise and held her head. Their grandmother noticed the rough housing and intervened.

"Lyonel, don't throw your toys at your sister," Catelyn firmly told him.

"Sowwy, gwammie," the young Prince apologized, giving sad puppy dog eyes.

Cassana luckily didn't cry, but merely rubbed her head from where one of her brother's toys bounced off. If the Princess was an angel at her age, then Lyonel was certainly being a handful.

"Lyonel," Daveth called to his son, "look at your sister and tell her you're sorry."

He turned to Cassana. "I sowwy."

"I's okie," she replied.

Catelyn nodded in approval. "That's good, children."

The twins resumed playing with their toys. Catelyn and Daveth were pleased that they had already learned their mannerisms and proving to be adept studies. The Young Stag believed if Lyonel and Cassana maintained their progress at this rate, they could one day end up surpassing him. But only time will tell whether or not this might be accurate or exaggerate.

"Is it always like this?" Daveth asked.

She looked at her son-in-law. "It gets challenging the more they grow up, but so far you and Sansa are off to a good start."

"That's… reassuring, mother-in-law. Sometimes I doubt my ability to parent. We're doing everything we can to give them a better life."

***KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK!***

"Who is it?" the Young Stag called out.

"It's Bodrin, Your Grace," a voice answered on the other side of the door, "and Lord Royce. Our patrons and we wish to have an audience with you. It's rather urgent."

Daveth slowly rose to his feet. Bodrin? He hadn't seen or heard from one of his close informants in over four years since Joffrey's purge of Robert's bastards. Last he heard Bodrin had fled King's Landing into the Riverlands before any form of communication was severed. All this time he thought the old man was dead.

"Come in."

The door pushed open, revealing Bodrin, Yohn Royce and two dark-haired individuals the Young Stag hadn't seen before. Catelyn recognized one of them while Lyonel and Cassana tilted their heads to the side in confusion; who were these strangers?

"Four years, Bodrin. Where have you been?" Daveth mentioned.

"It's a long story, Your Grace," he replied. "But I spent the last year recuperating in Riverrun. Bandits."

"I see."

Yohn stepped forward. "Pardon the intrusion, Your Grace, but our informants have discovered where the Sparrows are hiding. We're beginning a three-phased strategy to bring this minor squabbling to a quick, decisive conclusion as we speak."

"Already? That's good news, Lord Royce. Our city could certainly use it," Daveth noticed the two individuals look at him intently. "And who are these… companions of yours?"

"Ah, yes. Your Grace, these people are-"

Before both Bodrin and Yohn could turn to introduce them, they stepped forward in front of them.

"It's Gendry, Your Grace," he introduced himself with pride. "I'm Robert Baratheon's son. Bastard son."

"And I'm Mya Stone, Your Grace," she introduced herself. "I'm Robert Baratheon's bastard daughter."

Despite Bodrin and Yohn frowning in disappointment at their conduct, Daveth blinked at being relayed with such information and looked at both men with incredulous confusion etched on his face. What in Seven hells is going on here? How many illegitimate offspring did Robert actually sire? Was there something he did himself did not know?

"Wait, wait, wait! Hold on a minute. Can someone  _please_ explain to me what is going on here?" Daveth beseeched.

"They were meant to keep that part to themselves," Yohn said.

Gendry brushed his concerns off. "The three of us share the same father. Why shouldn't we trust each other? We're family after all, trueborn or baseborn, right?"

_'Yet you realize that I've never met any of you until now, right? So you'll have to excuse me that is all new to me,'_ Daveth eyed Gendry and Mya up and down. "When and where were each of you born?" he asked.

"Flea Bottom, year 282 AC," answered Gendry.

"The Vale of Arryn, year 279 AC," Mya replied.

Bodrin decided that now with everything out in the open, he might as well relay the private sensitive details to the King. "I know this might come across as a bit of a surprise, Your Grace, but believe it or not they're the last of King Robert's ba…" he stopped when he noticed the children so he decided to rephrase his words, "…ah, illegitimate offspring. Hence why they closely resemble you in regards to appearance."

"I… see," the Young Stag replied still trying to absorb as much detail. "Bodrin and Lord Royce informed me you two played a role against the Sparrows, yes?"

His bastard half-sister nodded. "Pests were everywhere, but one of your eunuch's spies told me and Lady Myranda where they're hiding… and more."

"Meaning?"

"One of the Most Devout was funding them and providing them with weapons. Some old crow clergy, Unella? I think?"

Daveth shook his head. "Unbelievable. And the others?"

"Held prisoner, but if we're to get them and Ser Loras out of their custody – it has to be now."

Gendry agreed. "Bodrin told us the plan and who we're up against, Your Grace. Let us help you."

Bodrin looked at him. "Gendry, don't be a fool. This is much bigger than it seems. You're not a soldier."

"No, but I'm a fighter. And he won't be needing a smith when the time comes."

"And he won't need a guide to herd the troops to flush 'em out," Mya pointed out.

Daveth sighed and shook his shoulders. "Do you have any experience in close-quarters combat? Do you know how to use a sword?"

"No," Gendry replied. "I prefer a hammer."

Mya unveiled her specialized ice hook. "This is mostly used for climbing steep mountains, but can also be used as a weapon. Don't worry; I know how to use it."

"Gendry can handle himself in a fight," Bodrin vouched for him.

Yohn begrudgingly resigned. "Mya… is more than capable of looking out for herself," he said.

"Good," the Young Stag replied. "Then it's time we bring the fight to the Sparrows."

* * *

**Throughout King's Landing…**

* * *

_"But first we'll need the extraction team to be ready. They need to be on the move before the High Sparrow catches wind of our plans and alert his followers. He might've caught us off-guard the first time. He thinks he's outplayed us with his small-scale hit-and-run tactics. But all that's about to change; we know every inch of this city more than he does."_

Throughout the capital city, merchants and civilians close down their shops and border up their homes to keep themselves out of the crossfire. A mother picked up her children and hurriedly made their way into their homes. With tensions boiling over, they knew trouble was coming. Throughout the streets, the gold cloaks quickened their pace and moved to close key central points: the Dragon Gate, Old Gate, Gate of the Gods, Lion Gate, King's Gate, Mud Gate, and Iron Gate. With every entrance and exist of King's Landing sealed off, no one was getting in or out until the uprising was dealt with.

_"Gendry, you and Mya will lead a small strike team to infiltrate the Sparrows' hideout through the sewage systems. It's too narrow for our troops, so your people will need to be sent in one at a time. Once inside, find Ser Loras Tyrell and the remaining Most Devout. Get them out post haste. My youngest brother, Prince Tommen, has insisted on helping out so he'll be going with you. Once you're out, take this bow and arrow with you and shoot it up in the air. The contents inside contain an explosive powder from Essos that, upon detonation, emanates a green flash. Once our troops on the ground see it, they'll know the mission's been successful."_

At one of the sewers, Gendry and Mya held their noses and pried open on of the bars encircling the pipes. Although the capital city was much cleaner and healthy, the sewage systems still stank of bile. Covering their noses and mouths, keeping themselves from retching to prevent any loud noise, the Baratheon bastards one-by-one navigated their people through the pipes with Prince Tommen at the very front. A lot of pained, cramped movements later, they reached their destination. Gendry pushes up a manhole cover and emerges into the hideout. Sparrows are seen walking by and don't notice Gendry, Mya and Tommen or any of the strike teams sneaking in one at a time.

_"Just keep him safe. Tommen might be a young and inexperienced lad, but he's determined to prove himself. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid."_

Tommen sneaks past a Sparrow; though when one turns around, they are immediately met with Gendry's war hammer while another is felled with Mya's ice pick. Having dispatched the nearby guards, Tommen locates his brother-in-law's cell and pushes it open.

"Loras?" he whispers. "Loras, it's me. Tommen Baratheon."

Curled up onto the floor, a dejected Loras is curled upon onto the floor but turns his head over his shoulders. The heir to Highgarden looked a complete mess: dirtied, his hair matted and tangled and beard grown out. Loras appeared beaten up, almost ready to give up resisting until his saw his rescuers.

"To… Tommen?" Loras asked tiredly.

The Young Cub nods. "I… i-it's gonna be all right now. We're getting you out of here. Your father, Margaery, they're all waiting for you back in the Red Keep," he said untying the rope restraints.

"Father? Margaery? They're… they're still here?" he asked hopefully. "I want it to stop. Just make it stop."

"My brother's not going to let the High Sparrow win, I promise." Tommen undid the ropes and threw one of Loras' arms over his shoulder to help him up. "Come on. We can't stay here. We have to go. Now."

In another room, Gendry and Mya forced open a cell door—revealing the imprisoned Most Devout.

"By the Gods!" Torbert exclaimed.

"Are you the Most Devout?" Mya asked.

Helicent coughed. "We are, but… Who are you, my child?"

"Mya Stone, King Robert's bastard daughter," she answered. "And this is my half-brother, Gendry, another of our father's bastards."

Gendry smashed apart the chains restraining them. "You're safe now. King Daveth sent us to get you out of this place. We're taking you home."

"Oh bless the Mother above us!" Luceon praised. "The Faith will not forget this!"

Back above, soldiers from the Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell and Royce garrison took their cue to splint into different squads on every street—cornering unfortunate Sparrows who weren't able to escape in time. Ser Barristan and Ser Arys were successful in apprehending and eliminating the Faith heretical movement; although the Sparrows fought back, they learned they were no match for well-armed, well-trained, disciplined soldiers. From the Hook, the Street of Flour, Silk, Sisters, Steel and Seeds, the Sparrows were quickly getting dispatched as more civilians began diving for cover to avoid being caught in the crossfire.

_"While you do that, Commander Duran's men will do what they can to keep civilians away from the fighting so as to avoid collateral damage. The new and improved City Watch is the one Duran has built. Well trained and well provisioned, up from 2,000 men to 4,500. Once the Sparrows have been rounded up, Ser Kevan Lannister will take over."_

From atop the battlements, gold cloaks under Commander Duran's instruction run across stocking arrows for the archers. Below them Sparrows were being backed into a corner by Lannister soldiers led by Lieutenant Tyral and Captain Graige—all under the commander of Ser Kevan Lannister himself.

"Draw!" shouted Commander Duran.

***STRETCHING!***

"Loose!"

***THWANG!***

***SCHHWAFF!***

Archers loose a set of arrows down onto rows of Sparrows huddling around the streets and corners—easily picking them off. Each Sparrow is felled by incoming arrows one by one before they had a chance to flee or get themselves out of the trap they found themselves in. Whenever one tried to make a run for it, a Lannister infantryman held his shield up and forced them back. Other gold cloaks who did not have a bow or arrow merely threw rocks from the top of the battlements.

Ser Kevan, meanwhile – although his mind was on the objective – was worried for at least one in particular. "Lancel…" he mused mournfully.

_"Lastly, Ser Jaime and Lord Mace will lead a contingency of Tyrell troops through the Street of Steel and up Visenya's Hill where they will focus their attention on funneling the last remaining Sparrows in the city out into the open – leading them straight into the arms of Lord Tarly and his men. From there, it's checkmate with the knights of the Vale cutting off their only means to escape. The High Sparrow will make his last stand there."_

_"And should the plan backfire?"_

_"Then simply pray, Lord Royce. Remember, we only get one shot at this. It's risky. So let's make it count."_

Flushed out of their hideaway, the High Sparrow was being escorted by Septa Unella, Brother Lancel and what few remaining followers he had left. His knees were hurting him, yet forced himself to keep moving. It didn't take long for the High Sparrow to realize Daveth Baratheon was already on the move—striking hard and fast in such a short span of time. Before he could rally the rest of the Sparrows, he learned they were completely cut off, isolated and eliminated. Those who resisted were put to the sword, those who fled were put to the sword. And with the only known escape routes blocked, the High Sparrow's only way out was forward.

Far too late did the Sparrows come to understand that they had underestimated the Young Stag's tenacity and ferociousness of House Baratheon, yet ruthless and calculating decisiveness of House Lannister; a dangerous combination mixed into one being.

"The way out should be this way," Brother Lancel pointed to a bright light at the end of a long tunnel. "With luck, we should be able to avoid the Oathkeeper and his men."

By the time they had stepped out into the opening, the High Sparrow, Unella, Lancel and the other Sparrows suddenly stopped in their tracks when they saw many Tyrell soldiers and mounted Arryn lancers cutting them off. Behind them stood a large gathering of commoners who stand at the foot of Visenya's Hill. If there were citizens assembling in large mass, then the High Sparrow confirmed his suspicions that his followers were utterly wiped out.

"We're trapped."

"Steady, Brother Lancel. Remain calm."

Jaime and Mace arrive at the center, leading the soldiers behind them. On the side, a smaller group of soldiers sets down a carriage—revealing Olenna Tyrell, who steps out of the carriage fanning herself. Around the corner rode in Ser Kevan and Lord Royce with their troops; Commander Duran and the City Watch approached from behind. All of them form up and turn to face the hillside.

"Company, halt! Face front! Turn!" the captains order.

The High Sparrow remained calm and composed as did Septa Unella, even as Brother Lancel and the six remaining Sparrows began to feel themselves waivering.

"Lancel! My son," Kevan hoped to reason with him. "It's over. Please. Abandon this futile crusade and come home with me to Casterly Rock. Your mother and I miss you. These Sparrows will get you killed if you stay here with them."

Lancel shook his head. "I'm already dead, father," he refused. "We of the Holy Faith abandon our family names to carry out the Gods' will. And I know what the Oathkeeper intends to do to me when we cross paths once more. I die with no regrets."

"Lancel!"

"May the Mother accept me in her warm embrace."

Kevan's face looked saddened at what he hoped would not come to pass: to see that not only was his son refusing to see reason, but that he had come to terms with the inevitability. Though he cared about Lancel, the deed was already done the moment he set foot in King's Landing—in clear violation of the terms presented to him after the trial. The High Sparrow looked down at the Kingslayer.

"Ser Jaime," he acknowledged.

"Sorry to interrupt," Jaime remarked brazenly. "Well, maybe not considering everything that's happened to us. We're here for Ser Loras Tyrell and the other members of the Most Devout. Give them to us and we'll be on our way."

"This is your last warning: return my son to me at once!" Mace shouted.

"I don't have the authority to give them to you until their trial begins," the High Sparrow replied. "And you don't have the authority to take them."

The crowd starts murmuring. Feeling his patience wearing thin, Jaime ushers his horse forward and rides it up Visenya's Hill and halts in front of the remaining Sparrows. Lord Mace turned back at his men as he saw Randyll Tarly with his spearmen surround them on all sides.

"Spears out!" Randyll ordered.

"A'oo!" the Tarly footmen grunt and point their spears towards the Sparrows.

Jaime leaned in close. "You've done well making it this far, but I'm done playing your little games. We all are. Now, this is the last time I'll be saying it. So listen closely: return Ser Loras of House Tyrell and the other Most Devout. I speak for my nephew King Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of His Name."

"The Gods don't recognize his authority in this matter."

"You already insulted not one, not two… but three Great Houses. Not only that, but you physically assaulted the Oathkeeper himself. You know the punishment for attacking the royal family, I hope?"

"To die in the service of the Gods would please each and every one of us. We yearn for it."

***BOOM!***

The High Sparrow, Jaime and everyone gathered high atop Visenya's Hill looked at the sky to see an exploding flash of green tilting across the sky. It was bright, but the troops on the ground knew that was the signal.

"A'oo! A'oo! A'oo!" the soldiers steadily made their ascent.

"You'd be willing to spill blood on holy ground?" the High Sparrow asked daringly.

"You had your chance to leave peacefully, old man, but you unfortunately gave us no choice," Mya appeared from the crowd with Gendry, Tommen, Loras and the other Most Devout in tow behind her. "I can see why the Oathkeeper doesn't tolerate people undermining every attempt at peace when you're the ones stirring up trouble in the first place."

Mance saw his son. "Loras!" he exclaimed with relief.

"Father!" Loras turned to Mace.

The High Sparrow noticed them. "Each of them swore sacred vows before the Gods and lied. The Father judges us all. Rich or poor, noble or common. If you break His laws, you will be punished. The sacred tenants of the Faith—the ' _Holy Texts_ ', the ' _Seven Pointed Star_ '—are to be applied to all of us equally, but betrayal and corruption runs deep in every corner. The Sparrows set out on a holy mission to purge the wicked and cleanse the impure. Ser Jaime, by dishonoring your house, you've shown yourself to be the greatest sinner of all. And you, child, you will surrender the Tyrells and the corrupt clergy into our custody. To defy us is to defy the gods."

The crowd murmured again, increasing steadily in volume.

"We will do no such thing!" shouted Gendry. "Just look around you, old man. Your followers beat people up who can't even defend themselves! Men, women and children from every corner of the world. I've seen what your people did to them at the Street of Steel."

"Everything was fine until you Sparrows showed up," Mya chimed in. "The people of this city have had good days and bad days just like everyone else, but at least they were  _safe_. Who do you think provides it for them? You?"

Loras intervened. "Your Sparrows had the nerve to attack me in plain sight of witnesses! You drag me to your dungeon, you question me on charges I deny, you mistreat not only me but the clergy who tend to the needs of the unfortunate!"

"That's more than enough. You've made your points clear," a voice rang from the crowd.

All heads turned to see none other than Daveth—accompanied by every single Kingsguard—riding through the crows atop his white stallion. In the carriage behind him contained Catelyn, his twin children and Tyrion, all of whom remained hidden and out of sight.

"It's King Daveth!" remarked one of the citizens.

"The Oathkeeper is here!" exclaimed another.

Daveth strolled forth until he passed Mace. "You've done well, Lord Tyrell. All of you have. But it's high time we put all of this behind us now that winter has come."

"So the Oathkeeper himself pays us tribute," the High Sparrow acknowledges him. "Tell us, Your Grace. How many people have you killed to get here? Brothers of the Faith, unarmored. Helpless, defenseless. How many of the Faith had to leave this world before their time?"

Daveth stared intently at the High Sparrow, calm and in complete control. "If you wish to see more bloodshed, then you will have none of it today. Not in my city, High Sparrow. All of it stops right now."

"So you deny  _your_  sins before the Seven?"

"How about your sins? Whether it was done by your hand or any hand you command?" He countered. "There's been a lot of violence these past few years. Once you told me that the many can overthrow an empire? But have you even considered what would happen afterwards? Chaos would ensue. Now that winter has arrived, the people here will need food and warm clothes—not supposed pious upstarts harassing the unfortunate. Create chaos and anarchy, push will come to shove. Nobles and commoners alike will starve and freeze."

"Yet you purposefully hide abominations, protect sinners and bathe yourself in corruption. Still you do not understand at how much wealth and power blinds you from the truth. How woefully you believe yourself above the laws of Gods and men. The Warrior punishes those who believe themselves beyond the reach of justice. But it is not too late for you to kneel before the mercy of the Mother and repent, King Daveth."

" _That_  is where I'm afraid you are sadly mistaken. My eyes were opened a long time ago to the harsh reality we all live in when I was very young. But clinging too tightly to the past will never allow old wounds to heal, some things we ourselves have had to learn the hard way. It's a vicious cycle we're trapped in. Every reprisal is itself an act of aggression, and every act of aggression triggers immediate reprisal. Breaking the cycle takes time, High Sparrow. Whatever wrongs that occurred in my rule, I take responsibility for the mistakes I've made so that good people wouldn't have to."

The crowd murmured even louder—causing most of the smallfolk to gather around the Young Stag in support. He glanced at his left and right, noticing how many were standing up for him and themselves. Oh how quickly the High Sparrow and Septa Unella observed how many were rallying to Daveth's side.

"As King of the Seven Kingdoms it is my solemn duty to protect the people—rich and poor, noble and commoners alike, but this goes beyond titles. What the meaning of the word 'family' means and how it applies to us all. It's not always about blood ties or noble houses, but rather it is a bond between those around you. The ones who want you in their life just as much as you want them in yours. It is that bond no one can ever take away. The North, Vale, Westerlands, Riverlands, Stormlands, Reach, Dorne… everyone living in the Seven Kingdoms is like family. And I will protect them from anyone who seeks to harm them with my life, even it's from people like you."

"A'oo! A'oo! A'oo!"

"All hail the Oathkeeper!" the crowd cheered. "Long live Daveth Baratheon!"

Daveth rode up until he stood next to his uncle. "Enough is enough, High Sparrow. Does a dream to realize a better world where there is no more conflict, no more suffering end with the Seven Kingdoms and its people worn down to nothing?" He noticed the few remaining Sparrows moving in. "It would be a poor choice to force my hand into action again."

By then, the Tarly and Royce troops were quick to intervene and apprehend the Sparrows before they even had a chance to react. Even the High Sparrow and Unella were taken aback when they roughly tackled them to the ground, though Daveth moved his hand up.

"Leave this one," he said referring to Unella. "The Most Devout will decide her fate."

"And the Sparrows, Your Grace? The High Sparrow?" asked one of the troops.

Daveth looked at the High Sparrow. "Know that I take no pleasure in doing this, but what you and your followers have done to these people under my care… cannot be forgiven. High Sparrow, I hereby sentence you and your followers to be hung by the neck until dead. Take them to the gallows."

"All of them?"

"All of them."

With that, the Tarly troops and Royce men-at-arms led the High Sparrow, Lancel and the remaining Sparrows away for execution. As for Septa Unella, she glared dagger eyes at the Young Stag as Ser Barristan and the Kingsguard cuffed her and brought her before the Most Devout members. The ruling council of the Faith of the Seven would decide what becomes of her before motioning to elect a new High Septon.

Jaime, meanwhile, was somewhat surprised at Daveth's move. To be honest, the Kingslayer was expecting violence and a pile of bodies to pile up – to see it end without further bloodshed was somewhat perplexing.

"Sometimes you have me wondering which method you prefer, nephew," he said.

The Young Stag shook his head. "Believe me, uncle, I was very tempted to crack their skulls."

"Then what stopped you?"

Daveth pointed to the carriage; by now Catelyn, Tyrion, Lyonel and Cassana all stepped out – though the twins' eyes were shielded by their grandmother. "I made a promise to my family that I'd at least try to take better care of myself. Not just my own sake, but for my children too. Still not used to having to rely on others for help, though I realize now that there are things I just can't handle on my own."

"And those things you said back there, about family, who told you that?"

"Jon Arryn," the Young Stag answered. "Yes, I know, even grandfather had wisdom to share on the art of governance and family. Both were good tutors in their own right. But did you think I listened to grandfather and Lord Arryn for 15 years and learned nothing? No, each one filled in the gaps of the other. The tricky part was applying both into practice. Now that winter is here, we'll need to look beyond the horizon. Until then, let's focus on the here and now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tactical strategy deployed into three phases on Daveth Baratheon's quest to take down the Sparrows. Which man in Game of Thrones do you think it closely resembled? I'll leave that up to you guys. Gendry, Mya Stone and Tommen rescued Loras Tyrell and the other Most Devout from the Sparrows' custody – all of them played a big role so how do you guys think they'll be rewarded? With the Sparrows neutralized and the public execution set, with troubles in the North and in King's Landing dealt with, how do you guys think Daveth and Sansa have been handling their responsibilities as Westeros' reigning monarchs? Thoughts? Let me know.


	119. Dealing with the Aftermath (The North)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb Stark decides how to handle the survivors; Sansa Stark demonstrates mercy and compassion.

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

There have been tensions been high: those who fought for Ramsay Snow and survived the Battle for the North were being held on trial by the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. With House Bolton extinct, the Dreadfort razed to the ground, punishment had to be meted out. Lord Ludd Whitehill of Highpoint along with his two sons Torrhen and Gryff were killed in battle fighting the Starks at the hands of Lord Rodrik Forrester of Ironrath. Among the enemies slain were Rickard Karstark and Smalljon Umber, leaving their children Alys and Ned; all three were standing before Robb Stark and Sansa Stark.

"The Karstarks, Whitehills and my traitorous bastard boy all betrayed the North!" the Greatjon Umber bellowed. "Their castles should be torn down with not a stone left standing."

"The castles committed no crimes, Lord Umber," Sansa countered. "But in the wars to come we'll need every fortress we have to stand against it." She turns to her brother. "Robb, we should give Karhold and Highpoint to new families –  _loyal_  families who supported us against Ramsay."

The hall likes this idea by the sound of it.

"Lord Stark, Your Grace," Gwyn spoke up, "whatever my father and brothers have done – the rest of House Whitehill had no part in his treachery. I beg you to reconsider—"

"But do you think that's fair?" Theon interjected. "Is it wrong for the sons and daughters to be punished for their father's crimes when they themselves had nothing to do with it?"

"Theon," Robb noticed.

"When my father was killed… when the Iron Islands were destroyed and my family almost wiped out, I vaguely recall you and Sansa both standing up for me when King Daveth clearly wanted to destroy House Greyjoy root and stem. I'm not a Stark or a Northmen like the rest of you, I know that. But your father raised me to be an honorable man. And let me be the first to say that what you're thinking would be a big mistake in the long-term. I don't know much about the Whitehills, but the Umbers and Karstarks have fought beside House Stark for hundreds of years. They've kept faith for generations—"

Then interruption and arguments are sent flying.

"And they broke faith," Lyanna Mormont interjected rather loudly.

"What do you know?! You're a bloody ironborn!" shouted Lord Manderly.

"So you'd propose no punishment for treason and no reward for loyalty?" Rodrik implored. "Lord Stark, Rickard Karstark and his sons Torrhen and Harrion both died fighting for you in the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, but Harold died fighting for Ramsay as did Smalljon Umber! Reward those whose men died fighting for  _you_!"

"Strip them of their lands and titles and fortunes and give them to someone worthy of—" Lord Glover concurred before being interrupted.

"Hey!" the Greatjon glared down at the child. "My son's already shown himself a turncloak and he paid for his treasons, but my grandson is an innocent lad!"

"How do we know he or that Karstark bitch won't end up like their fathers?!"

A loud groundswell of support and heated words goes up in the hall in response. Lucius, Brienne, Stannis and Davos glance at each respective Stark. They were waiting for Sansa and Robb to each make a move, though the Wolf Queen felt faint and looked pale. The Young Wolf noticed his sister massaging her belly and asked if she was sick. When she replied no, Jon decided this was the time to intervene.

"Robb," he spoke up, "when I was Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, I executed men who betrayed me. I executed men who refused to follow orders. Our father always said the man who passes the sentence should swing the sword, and I've tried to live by those words every day since my stay at Castle Black." He glanced at Theon. "But Theon is right. You must not punish a son for his father's sins, nor should you take a family home away from a family it's belonged to for centuries."

"Jon—"

He turned towards Sansa. "Think back at how Daveth wanted Theon dead. He wanted the whole Greyjoy bloodline dead. We all heard of the incident that occurred that day at Lannisport many years ago – but those who've committed that crime are long gone. Show them mercy and they won't break faith ever again."

Sansa looked at Jon, Theon, Gwyn, Alys and Ned. She felt sick to her stomach, tired and breathed a sigh of frustration. Damn these hormones and random mood swings.

"Do what you will," the Wolf Queen brushed off.

Robb sat in judgment. Rubbing his stubble and petting Grey Wind, he sighed begrudgingly and stood up. "Ned Umber," he calls out.

Young Ned Umber, the Greatjon's 9-year-old grandson, rises timidly from his seat and into view. He is very much a child, and a frightened one at that – only reassured that everything will be all right from his lord grandfather.

"Alys Karstark," the Young Wolf continued.

The daughter of Lord Harrold likewise reveals herself in the crowd. She is 15, six years older than Ned, but still little more than a child as both approach Robb visibly afraid at the possibility they might be executed. Robb gestures for them to come towards him, whom they oblige haltingly—painfully conscious of the judging eyes upon them. Gwyn and Alys do their best to hold their heads up high.

"Each of your fathers committed grave crimes against House Stark," the Young Wolf begun, "what they have done is unforgiveable. As fellow Northmen, you yourselves know this. However, none of us here actually knows whether or not any of you were involved in any way. What Lord Theon suggests might be better than what others would offer if this took place somewhere else."

Gwyn, Ned and Alys kneel and stare up at him.

"But until then, I'll ask you only one time to pledge your loyalty to House Stark. To serve as our bannermen, and come to our aid whenever called upon. Now that winter is here, the North needs to band together to survive. The entire North. Will you stand behind me Gwyn, Ned and Alys, now and always?"

"Now and always," all three vowed in unison.

The bannermen fill the hall with their applause and appreciation, stirred by Jon's speech and by the sight of these young heirs swearing renewed fealty to their liege lord. Sansa does not join in and excuses herself. Only Brienne, Lucius and Pod follow close behind her.

**—5 hours later—**

Robb and Jon sit at the high table with representatives from Northern houses, the wildlings and Stannis Baratheon's host sitting amongst each other in the dining hall. The bastard and traitor Ramsay Snow was defeated and House Bolton utterly wiped out—root and stem. Olyvar was permitted to give his niece Walda and her infant son a proper burial, though both were so terribly mauled beyond recognition he had a hard time keeping his composure let alone trying not to vomit. Not even prayers to the Old Gods of the Forest or the Faith of the Seven could ever bring them back to life.

Besides the Starks, Theon sat next to Jeyne—providing whatever emotional comfort and support he could muster. She was still shaken by what happened to her at Ramsay's hands, and it'll take time for Jeyne to recover.

"The Northerners, the wildlings and Lord Stannis' army each played a vital in ending the villainy of the bastard Ramsay Snow," the Young Wolf stood up. "We all fought bravely together and we won since the days of the First Men, resisting every known threat to the North just as we had resisted against the Andal invaders thousands of years before."

"Hear, hear," Cley Cerwyn proclaimed. "Now that the Boltons are gone, the war is over. And now that winter has come, we should ride home and wait out the coming storms. If the maesters are right, it'll be the coldest one in 1,000 years if not the longest ever."

Jon shook his head and stood up. "The war is  _not_  over," he frowned.

All eyes turned to Jon Snow's objections; even Robb, Sansa and Rickon looked at their half-brother with quite a surprised look on their faces.

"Jon—"

"And I promise you, my lords and ladies, the true enemy won't wait out the storm. He  _brings_  the storm."

The men begin to murmur amongst themselves. What could this baseborn lad be talking about? What nonsense was he uttering? What enemy? Are they going to be under siege again? No matter, Northern valor would prevail once more as they've demonstrated at the Dreadfort. The whispers continued until Lyanna Mormont, Dacey's youngest sister, stood up.

"I understand my sisters and I are responsible for Bear Island and all who live there," she said heatedly. "So why should we sacrifice more Mormont life for another war that may or may not happen?"

Jon fell silent, but Davos stepped forward.

"If it please, my lady, I understand how you feel," the Onion Knight said.

Lyanna turned towards him. "I don't know you, Ser…?"

"Davos, my lady, of House Seaworth."

The younger Mormont turns to Maester Luwin, but Davos reassures her.

"King Daveth once asked me that very same question many years ago, my lady. You don't need to ask a maester about my house. It's rather new."

Dacey eyed him closely. "All right then, Ser Davos of House Seaworth. How is it you understand how we feel? You and Lord Stannis are not of the North."

"No, no we're not," Davos noted. "I was a crabber's son, then I was a smuggler. And now I found myself addressing a gathering of lords and ladies of great houses. But I stand here with Lord Stannis because this is no longer a war between a few squabbling houses."

"Clarify."

"Go on, Ser Davos," Lyanna said doubtfully.

Davos turns to Jon. "Your uncle, Lord Commander Mormont, made that young man his steward. He chose Jon to be his successor because he knew he had the courage to do what was right—making peace between the Night's Watch and the wildlings, even if it meant giving his life. Because Jeor Mormont and Jon Snow both understood that the real war is between the living and the dead. And make no mistake, my lady, the dead are coming."

"What a bogus claim!" exclaimed a Northern lord.

"Where's your proof?"

"The White Walkers have been gone for over 8,000 years!"

Robb slammed his fist on the table. "Quiet, my lords!" he hollered.

The room got quite when Grey Wind snarled. Dacey, meanwhile, raised her six-foot tall body from the bench and looked at Jon Snow. The bastard noticed she was beckoning him towards her, so he complied. Once Jon was close to Dacey, he loosens the belt holding his sword and presents it to her.

"This is…" Dacey recognized it.

"Longclaw," Jon nodded. "Your uncle gave me this sword. He changed the pommel from a bear to a wolf, but it's still Longclaw." He hands it to Dacey. "It's been in your family for five centuries. It's not right for me to have it."

The Lady of Bear Island held Longclaw in her hands and looks it over. "I remember uncle Jeor. My mother and sisters all called him 'Old Bear,' as did everyone else on Bear Island. Not because of his age, oh how he hated that, but how uncle Jeor was fiercely protective and a lovingly loyal man to us before abdicating to join the Night's Watch. He embodied House Mormont's qualities of strength, honor and fearlessness. Nurturing and warm," She looked at Jon. "How did he die?"

"Rast and Karl Tanner turned on him at Craster's Keep, just beyond the Wall during the Great Ranging. Shoved their knives in his back," he answered. "Before the Battle of Castle Black, I led a team of rangers to avenge him."

Dacey looked at Jon, listening closely to his words. "Good," she said viciously. "And these… things Ser Davos mentioned earlier, you said you've seen them?"

Jon nods. "Your uncle fought them at the Fist of the First Men. I fought them at Hardhome. We both lost, my lady. As united as the North stood against Ramsay, it alone might not be enough when the Night King does come. We can't reason with him, we can't parley with him… He is death itself."

Dacey pauses, pulling Longclaw halfway out of the sheath and inspecting the blade closely. After a few moments, she put it back in its sheath and handed the Valyrian steel sword back to Jon.

"My lady?" he asked confused.

"Our uncle chose to pass down Longclaw to a successor worthy of inheritance," she insisted. "Take it with you as a token of friendship between the Mormonts and Starks. May it serve you well and your children after you, Jon Snow… the White Wolf."

Jon accepted Longclaw back in his possession. Dacey looked at him and Robb, nodding her head in approval—giving them her consent for House Stark to retain the use of her family's ancestral weapon. The Young Wolf looked around to see Sansa no longer present in the great hall.

"Jon? Where's our sister?"

* * *

**In the Godswood…**

* * *

Sansa stood before Winterfell's weirwood tree, looking up at it as if lost deep in thought. She closed her eyes and steadily inhaled and exhaled. Gods, it had been more than five years since the Wolf Queen was last here in the godswood. Reaching her hand outwards, Sansa gently brushed her hand along the great oak. The godswood was covered in snow, but the weirwood tree still retained its dark red leaves and a long melancholy face carved in the bone white bark, its deep-cut eyes still dried red with sap. The silence was broken when Sansa's ears perked up at the sound of footsteps in the snow.

"There's no need for you to check on me by sneaking on me like that, Ariyana. I know it's you," she called out calm and composed.

Ariyana stopped moving. "Forgive me, Your Grace… if you're at prayer."

Sansa shook her head. "No, that's all right. I was… reminiscing."

"About what?"

"I used to come here in the godswood every day when I was a girl. I prayed to be somewhere else. Knowing what I know now, I only thought about what I wanted – never considering what I actually needed. But I suppose everything worked out in the end. A husband, two beautiful children… Life works in mysterious ways," Sansa turned to face Ariyana. "You, on the other hand, continue to elude me. My husband and I entrusted you with our protection as a Kingsguard, Ariyana, and yet you spied on us. Sent secrets to people in Dorne we didn't know until the negotiations took place. But not long after the Battle for the North, I've learned from Ser Olyvar and Ser Lucius that you yourself played a role in aiding my brother. Why come before me now?"

The Sword of the Morning knew she was being put on the spot. "I understand that one act might not be enough to regain your trust or faith in me, Your Grace. It pains me, but since that day I vowed to make amends to you and your family… even if it's one step at a time, a Kingsguard keeps their oaths—and a select few of our male counterparts who actually abide by the chivalrous knight's code of honor." Ariyana exhaled steadily. "It's true Prince Doran asked me to observe you, but after all time I spent with you—you basically treated me like family. I began to slowly realize what kind of people you really were. I wanted to tell you the truth, but… I lost my nerve. I didn't want to choose between the two of you: Dorne or the Crown. I made a choice, Your Grace, and now I have to live with it for the rest of my life. I don't expect your mercy or forgiveness, and will accept any punishment you deem fitting."

Sansa watched with surprise as Ariyana actually fell to her knees and lowered her head down before placing Dawn at her feet—throwing herself completely at her mercy. The Wolf Queen still had not forgotten nor forgiven one of her own sworn shields for that debacle, but if time has taught her anything – it's to not continue holding any grudges lest it would destroy you from the inside; as it had with Robert Baratheon with the Targaryens that it literally took only dying on his deathbed to finally let go. Her husband Daveth nearly went down a similar path as well, only diverting from its course after the Second Greyjoy Rebellion was put down. Sansa was faced with making a decision she couldn't put off any longer.

"Stand up, Ariyana. Get up off your knees," she beckoned.

"Your Grace?" Ariyana lifted her head up, half in confusion and half with surprise.

"Although I cannot forget what you did, continuing to anchor yourself with guilt will never allow any real progress to be made. Trust is difficult to rebuild, Ariyana… but you fought for my brother and saved Ser Lucius's life out there. So I'm willing to give you at least another chance for that."

"Your Grace, I… this is unexpected," the Sword of the Morning nearly stammered. "King Daveth would never afford me the same forgiveness. If you will permit me to remain as your Kingsguard, my dedication to the Iron Throne will never come into question again."

"If you have any concerns, just tell us. Do not go behind our backs again."

"There will be no next time, Your Grace. I swear."

Sansa returned Dawn to Ariyana—who accepted it back with a sense of relief. Out of the corner of the Wolf Queen's eye, she noticed another group making their way to her.

"So this is where you were. Lord Stark was looking for you," Lucius acknowledged. "I take it Ariyana's… told you everything?"

"She has, Ser Lucius," Sansa confirmed.

"Why were you not at the great hall? Is everything all right?" Brienne asked.

"No, Brienne. I just—" she noticed Jeyne steadily approaching. "Jeyne?"

The two childhood friends moved to embrace each other.

"What are you doing here? I thought you'd still be in bed recuperating."

Jeyne looked lost in thought. "I… I tried, but… I-I can still feel w-what Ramsay did to my body. Even standing here right now, I can feel it. Everything."

Sansa shook her head. "Don't even think of such things. You're safe now. He can't hurt you anymore."

"I-I know, Sansa. And I'm grateful to you, Robb and Theon for all you've done for me. It's just… my father is gone. He-he's dead."

"I'm so sorry."

Jeyne hugged Sansa again. "I… thank you. What happens from here on now? I don't know what else to do. Where am I supposed to go?"

The Wolf Queen simply held her best friend. Jeyne was a cherished childhood companion who was like a sister to her. Her father and Winterfell's steward, Vayon Poole, was murdered by Ramsay. Sansa thought about it long and hard until she had an idea.

"Jeyne, would you like to come live with me?" she asked.

She looked at her. "Y-you want me to… to l-live with you? Down south at King's Landing? Oh Sansa, do you think I can?"

"I believe so, yes. You're like a sister to me, Jeyne. My son and daughter would adore you. So long as you're with me if you choose to do so, no one will ever come for you again. I'll do everything in my power to keep you safe."

"Your Grace—" Olyvar tried to interject but was quickly silenced when Sansa shot him a cold death glare.

Jeyne sniffled. "*sniff!* Then… can I pack my belongings?" she asked.

Sansa nodded. "Of course you can." She pulled her to the side. "Actually, before you do so, I have something to tell you. All of you."

"What's that?" asked Brienne.

"Do you remember why I asked to see Maester Luwin once we arrived at Winterfell?"

"Yes. That was several weeks ago," Lucius nodded. "Did you find out what was wrong?"

"I wouldn't say 'wrong', Ser Lucius."

"Then it was a good one?"

"Mhmm. Everyone, I'm pleased to announce that I am pregnant with my third child."

Brienne, Lucius, Olyvar, Ariyana, Pod and Jeyne all stared blankly before realization set in. One by one, each of them applauded and congratulated her upon hearing such news.

"This is incredible, Your Grace! How far along are you?" Lucius asked.

"I'm 2 months."

"Congratulations, Your Grace," said Brienne.

"Indeed, congratulations," said Ariyana.

"Can I feel?" asked Jeyne politely.

Sansa smiled and nodded and allowed Jeyne to place a small, delicate hand on her best friend's stomach—now starting to grow in size. Even now Sansa's lower back, feet and breasts were aching from the second pregnancy. But with the war for the North over, Sansa allowed herself a moment's peace with her friends before leaving Winterfell for King's Landing tomorrow morning.

"Do you think it'll be a boy or a girl?" asked Brienne.

Sansa rolled her eyes. "I don't know."

"Maybe another set of twins?" joked Olyvar.

The thought made the Wolf Queen shudder. "Oh by the Gods, I certainly hope not!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dealing with the aftermath in the North might cause several mixed reactions as how Robb Stark could've possibly handled the remaining descendants of those who fought for Ramsay, but Theon and Jon both stood up for them—one in particularly mentioned a similar solution he himself was once in. Dacey Mormont declines to take back Longclaw and instead passes it on to Jon Snow and Ariyana Dayne is forgiven by Sansa, though it'll take time for trust levels to be properly restored. Also, Jeyne has been invited to live with Sansa in King's Landing. Think the twins Lyonel and Cassana will like her? Thoughts? Let me know.


	120. A Storm is Brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old enemy from Daveth Baratheon's past makes his return to the world.

**At King's Landing…**

* * *

Daveth spent the following days in solitude—having executed the High Sparrow, Lancel and the remaining Sparrows left in the capital city, the Young Stag spent much of his time reviewing documents, petitions… and of course, planning for a moment's respite with his wife upon her eventual return. They'd been preparing for their anniversary for quite some time if it weren't unplanned events from occurring. Bodrin had been assisting as the King's scribe to lessen the burden, though Tyrion—Daveth's uncle and Hand of the King—often stopped by to pick up the stamped documents.

Nearby, Lyonel and Cassana were busy playing with their toys—wooden knights, blocks and dolls. Catelyn babysat them while her son-in-law occasionally shot a glance over to his right to check up on them.

"The shipment you've requested has arrived, Your Grace," said Bodrin, breaking the Young Stag's concentration.

Daveth slid another stamped document to the side. "I trust the contents inside were not damaged in anyway?" he asked.

"Not that we know of. The people of the Reach exercise delicate care and tenderness when it comes to gardening."

"I see. Put it over there on the counter."

"What did you buy from the Reach?" asked Catelyn.

"I promised Sansa we'd have a proper anniversary before all this mess started."

Bodrin and Shae both brought in the ordered goods into the room and placed it down on the counter next to Daveth's personal desk. All were placed in a fancy decorative glass vase etched with vines – its content including a mixture of red roses, yellow daisies, white lilies and lilacs and purple hydrangeas. Next to it was a crown of winter roses, blue with frost; almost similar to the Queen of Love and Beauty crown the Young Stag had given to his wife when he won the joust at the Tourney of the Hand years earlier.

"There's also this," Bodrin presented a shiny crown; freshly forged by the looks of it.

Daveth examined the metalwork closely. Hammered, polished and sparkling when exposed to sunlight, the design closely resembled the ancient crown of the Kings in the North with some minor adjustments: the metal bodice featured a row of nine steel grey iron spikes shaped like longswords with ruby gemstones around the side of the open circlet, the center-front featured two howling scaly direwolves incised with runes of the First Men. Studded antlers of House Baratheon also protruded around the crown – depicting the Stark Queen's marriage ties to the royal family.

"I hope she likes this," Daveth quietly hoped.

Catelyn noticed. "Sansa's changed you this much, hasn't she? How uncharacteristically soft of you," she teased in a motherly tone.

The Young Stag's eyes widened and his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "Wha…? Hey! I am  _NOT_  soft!" he said defensively.

Lyonel and Cassana giggled at their father's apprehensiveness.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Shae interrupted, "but there's also this." She handed the Young Stag a letter, sealed in gray wax – which remained unbroken.

"What is it?"

"It's a message from your wife. A raven flew in just this morning."

Daveth cracked the seal and read.

> _"My dearest King,_
> 
> _I write to inform you that the traitor Ramsay Snow had attempted to_   
>  _usurp power in the North, having murdered his father Lord Roose_   
>  _Bolton along with both his wife Lady Walda and their trueborn son._   
>  _Our ravens dispatched to White Harbor that had gone unanswered for_   
>  _quite some time was a consequence on Ramsay's part to prevent_   
>  _anyone from discovering his plans – one we learned upon our arrival_   
>  _and further explained the situation to Lord Manderly._
> 
> _What came next during our travels to my home at Winterfell was rather_   
>  _disturbing: along the kingsroad we discovered Theon and my friend_   
>  _Jeyne Poole being pursued by Bolton soldiers, presumably having been_   
>  _dispatched by Ramsay himself. As it turns out, the 'Arya Stark' rumor_   
>  _had proven nothing but a deceitful lie. Because of the vile nature and_   
>  _horrors inflicted upon my homeland and its people, I cannot in good_   
>  _conscience describe what has happened via raven for concerns that_   
>  _the message might be intercepted._
> 
> _I am sorry. I'll explain more once we return to King's Landing soon,  
>  I promise._
> 
> _The Winter's Voyage should be arriving at the port within three weeks,_  
>  _two should the crew have the wind blowing into our sails. Until then,_  
>  _take good care of the children and yourself. I know you'll only shake_  
>  _your head and roll your eyes, but by the Old Gods and the New you_  
>  _can be so stubborn sometimes."_

As predicted, Daveth did indeed roll his eyes sarcastically and shook his head. When he resumed reading the letter, one note in particular caught his attention.

> _"…dreadful words and constant reminders aside, I do have good news_  
>  _I would like to share with you. As your wife, it is my duty to inform you_  
>  _that I am again carrying your little prince or princess inside me._  
>  _Maester Luwin examined me and informed that I am currently two_  
>  _months along into my pregnancy, nearing the third._
> 
> _Perhaps we can rest easy once Lyonel and Cassana learn they will  
>  soon have a little brother or a sister to play with? Silly notion, I know._
> 
> _Be well and safe, love – you and the children are always in my thoughts._
> 
> _Forever yours,  
>  Sansa"_

Daveth reexamined that last bit over and over again with realization setting in. "Cat," he broke the silence, "it's… a message from Sansa."

"What does it say?" she asks.

"She… she's pregnant again."

Catelyn smiled. "Congratulations, Daveth."

"Thank you." He turned to his son and daughter. "Lyonel, Cassana," he called them.

Both twins stood from playing with their toys and waddled over.

"Daddy?" Lyonel piped curiously.

The Young Stag knelt down to meet them at eye-level. "Kids, your mother is on her way home now. How would you two like to draw something nice for her?"

"Mommy come home?" they asked excitedly.

Daveth nodded.

"Yay!"

"Yes, yes, I know. Now go get some paper and your crayons and draw something nice for your mother."

With that, the 2-year-olds Lyonel and Cassana hurriedly scoured across the room gathering what seems to be a mountain of paper and picked up their scattered crayons on the floor before getting to work scribbling and doodling. Daveth and Catelyn sat down beside the twins to observe what they were drawing: Lyonel was attempting to sketch a portrayal of what seemed to be a mounted knight riding a horse or on the back of a giant direwolf; Cassana, meanwhile, tried her hand at depicting an open pasture, a land cultivated with grass near a river with a bright rainbow shining from above.

Although they were relatively new with artwork, Catelyn praised her grandchildren's pictures—Daveth remained on the sidelines… watching them from afar. Despite their being a sense of peace and tranquility throughout the land, the Young Stag couldn't help but suspect that something might come around to disrupt it once more—and House Baratheon must always be ready to rise to the occasion when trouble comes.

"Wook, daddy! Wook!" Cassana held up her picture.

"Me too, daddy!" Lyonel showed his.

Daveth redirected his attention. "That's very nice, children. Put them on the counter over there so your mother can see it, and don't forget to clean up after yourselves."

"Okie!"

Both Daveth and Catelyn watched the twins picking up their sketches and placed them on the counter next to the other gifts. Once done they moved to pick up their crayons and toys which remained scattered across the floor. The Young Stag felt fortunate that his mother-in-law was helping him handle two hyperactive twins else he would've gone insane.

***KNOCK!***

***KNOCK!***

"Come in," called out Daveth.

The door to the room opened, revealing Tommen. "Brother," he acknowledged.

"Ah, Tommen. I didn't recall sending for you."

"You didn't. I was… actually hoping to ask a favor of you."

Daveth was now curious as to why Tommen would approach him like this; but then again, considering recent events, the Young Stag had his share of suspicions of what it is that the Young Cub might ask him.

"Lyonel, Cassana… be good to your grandmother. Your father needs to have a word with your uncle."

"Okie!" they replied, plainly uninterested and focused on drawing more pictures for their mother when she does return.

Daveth and Tommen stepped outside the room, closing the door behind them. Once they were alone, the elder Baratheon had a serious facial expression.

"All right, Tommen. What is this about?" he pressed.

"I know it sounds sudden, but I need to ask a favor from you."

"That depends. What would that be?"

"Train me. Teach me how to be a knight, brother."

Daveth blinked briefly before he brushed back a black bang that had fallen across his forehead. "Train you," he repeated the question. "Let me see if I'm hearing you correctly. You come to my chambers and…  _request_  that I personally take you under my wing and supervise your training—sword and lance? Do you actually know of what it is you're really inquiring?"

Tommen broke eye contact a bit before bolstering his confidence. "Margaery says that a member of the royal family has to know how to defend themselves when our loved ones are threatened. I mean, how can a man protect his family if he can't even make the effort?"

_'Of course she would put such ideas in his head,'_ the Young Stag thought. "But why come to me? Why not ask Ser Loras or uncle Jaime?"

"Loras just got married last week and couldn't be bothered. As for uncle Jaime, well… Daveth, you're my brother. We've all had to watch you be forced to fight a lot of battles alone. I want to help."

"Wanting to learn how to be a knight isn't the same as what you hear from the old tales. Honorable as knighthood might be, it tends to be misused or makes unready young boys meet an early grave."

"But I can help. I'm tired of being gullible, always sitting on the sidelines while you've had to carry the burden on your shoulders every single day. I mean, you started as a squire and you turned out fine."

"I was 9 when I first started and it wasn't by choice, Tommen. You are 16. This isn't all fun and games," he lowered his voice to a heated whisper so as to not be overheard. "It takes years for squires to become knights. That's not a lot of time to make any serious progress when Daenerys Targaryen is in the middle of amassing her armies and all three of her dragons."

"I know, brother. I know. That's why I came to ask you. It was my choice to make."

Daveth groaned and shook his head. Gods have mercy, his youngest brother was not relenting when it comes to this. Yet even then there was some truth as to what Tommen was saying; not implying just his own brother, but also himself. In a way, Tommen hated feeling powerless and only stepped up to the plate because he wanted to help. Should it continue to persist, no doubt many would use Tommen for their own gains; being shielded from all the wrongs would not give him the life lessons he should have. As the oldest of the siblings, Daveth had long knowing that eventually there'd come a time where every one of them would have to start their own lives.

But that time had already come to pass.

"If you're certain about this…"

"I  _am_  sure. I know what I want, and I want  _you_  to train me. Show me how to fight so I can protect my wife like you've done for all of us."

Daveth sighed. "Fine," he conceded. "But let me make one thing perfectly clear: if we do this, you'd best be committed. I want to hear no whining or complaining on your part. I do not accept excuses nor will I tolerate laziness. We do this, we go all the way—nothing half-assed. Understand?"

Tommen looked close to confident, hiding his shuffling feet beneath him. "Thank you, brother. You won't regret it."

_'You say that now, but sooner or later you'll end up regretting what you said.'_

"Oh, and can I have a kitten in the meantime? I-it's for Margaery, I mean."

"No. Now run along to your chambers. We start first thing in the morning."

Tommen nods understandingly and turns around to walk towards his room. No doubt Margaery awaits him there, though the Young Stag remains aware of House Tyrell's current standing ever since the rescue of Lord Mace's son and heir Loras from Sparrow custody. The Knight of the Flowers had been slowly recovering, but his mind will no doubt take longer to heal considering what he's been forced to endure. The wedding between Loras and Ser Kevan's daughter Janei would take place next week, though Daveth planned to distance himself considering he had ordered his own second cousin Lancel be put to death along with the High Sparrow.

Should he attend the wedding ceremony at the Great Sept of Baelor, there'd no doubt be a sense of discomfort and somewhat of a social awkwardness with his great-uncle and other second cousins Willem and Martyn Lannister. Daveth shook his head wearily as he looked out the window and noticed a dense, vertical cumulonimbus clouds developing in the distance. Within a few hours they'd be moving further in towards the mainland—hinting that a storm was brewing and would soon hit them.

Even from the Red Keep, Daveth could feel the temperature and smell the moisture in the air shifting and changing. "And so nature demonstrates another example of mad Westerosi weather. The elements full of sound and fury, unpredictable and in some cases dangerous," he contemplated. Yet that didn't stop his left hand from trembling slightly.  _'And yet… why do I suddenly feel uneasy?'_

* * *

**Somewhere on the Iron Islands…**

* * *

Heavy rain pours down on the ruined landscape of the decimated Iron Islands; thunder booms loudly and lightning bolts shoot across the stormy skies. It's been more than three years since the end of the Second Greyjoy Rebellion, yet the scars and devastation remained. Where the group of seven small rocky islands located far off the western coast of Westeros with stone castles, steep hills and shipyards were reduced to piles of rubble and ruin, crushed yet charred skeletal remains and the landscape rendered a barren wastelands—uninhabitable and devoid of both life and plundered resources.

Waves violently crashed against the Iron Islands, battering the archipelago. But anchored not too far from the mainland of Pyke were at least a few ships consisting of about 61-93 ships—one in particular bore the standard House Greyjoy heraldry of a kraken on a black field, but the kraken was silver instead of gold with a third red eye inscribed onto its head. Several small rowboats docked along the shore, tied to wooden stakes used originally at Lordsport until its destruction.

Several cloaked figures walked upon the barren wasteland, stepping on and sometimes crushing charred bones along the way—taking in the sight that the Iron Islands, once poor soil and hardly any natural resources and few poor crop fields, now had literally nothing of value.

His face covered by the hood, the figure grinned wickedly. "Hehehe. Well, well, looks like we missed one hell of a fight, boys," he almost chuckled frighteningly, amusedly looking around as he removed his hood—revealing his identity as Euron Greyjoy.

A wildly unpredictable and cruel man even among the ironborn, Euron was perhaps widely regarded as the most feared pirate alive. Unlike many ironborn, he is a cunning strategist and the mastermind responsible for orchestrating the surprise raid on Lannisport during the First Greyjoy Rebellion. Although his brother Victarion commanded the Iron Fleet, it was Euron who came up with the plan.

His crew was terrified of their captain. "By the Drowned God, there's nothing left…" one of the sailors bemoaned.

"Eh, the place was getting crowded anyways."

"But… but our home—"

"—we'll be getting a new one. A better one," Euron shot back undeterred. "What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger. That's the custom every ironborn abides by. From Ib to Asshai, from Oldtown to Qarth, when men see my sails… they pray. Or has my brother Balon changed that while I've been gone?"

The wind buffets back and forth. Some of his own crew could not reply; though they had dried blood staining their lips—indicating that their tongues were cut out; a crew of mutes. Despite the winds being strong and some tried to hold their balance, Euron chuckled as he remained perfectly still—his posture remained unmoved by the force of nature.

"Oh that's right, I needed silence. When you're crew of my ship the  _Silence_ , that's all I expect from you: silence. Search the area for anything of value."

While his crew scoured the ruined Iron Islands, Euron had a deep sense of nostalgia sweep over him.  _'Drowned God, you say? Aeron would've been on another rant about false gods by now. But who knows more of gods than I, eh, Aeron? I am the Drowned God. Golden idols, the trees… I spill their blood upon the sea and sow their screaming women with my seed. Their little gods couldn't stop me then, they won't stop me now. Perhaps the mainlanders are the ones who ought to kneel before me for blessing.'_

One of the sailors from the other longships ran over. "Captain, we found something."

Euron looked back to see one holding a driftwood crown and another picking up a broken studded stag antler. There was another rumble of thunder, perhaps even the loudest as several lightning bolts lit up the skies. Euron's face was revealed fully, his grin to be a maniac's smile.

"Ah, so he came back did he? Hehehe, oh how the boy's grown since we last saw him."

"Captain?"

"Why the same frightened little cub we took from Lannisport fourteen years ago, boys. Daveth Baratheon. The same one who destroyed our home," his face grew terrifyingly serene. "He thinks his rage builds a mighty storm, but still he doesn't understand  _I_  am the storm. The first storm and the last."

The crew—whatever ironborn remained and mutes—all gestured to one another in fury and rage, most demanding blood and vengeance for the home they lost. Euron retained a vicious grin and took the driftwood crown from one of his underlings.

"Listen up!" his voice bellowed with the thunderclaps, directing his crew's attention to focus on him. "I'm Euron Greyjoy. From this day forward, I claim the Salt Throne. But do you know why? My brothers got what they deserved. No one loved them. No one wanted to follow them. Balon was leading our people nowhere and we would still be heading there if our golden opportunity hadn't been presented itself to us. But Balon was the main cause of it all. He led us into two wars we couldn't win. I've been all over the world. I've seen more of it than every ironborn combined. And across the sea there is a person who hates the great lords of Westeros and the Oathkeeper who rules them just as much as we do. Someone with a large army, three large dragons and no husband. I'm going to demonstrate the superiority of our naval forces to Daenerys Targaryen along with my big cock."

The ironborn laugh.

"Sure, we've lost our home, our livelihood and everything that makes us strong. But I see something greater. We're going to take the Seven Kingdoms. I wasn't born to be King. I paid the iron price and here I stand."

***APPLAUSE!***

At the beach, several ironborn carry flags to the stormy shores while they watch Euron kneeling in water. One of the four remaining Drowned Men from Euron's ships stood beside him and pushes him under the stormy waves.

"May Euron, your servant, be born again from the seas as you were," the Drowned Man prayed. "Bless him with salt. Bless him with stone. Bless him with steel. Listen to the waves. Listen to the god. He is speaking to us and He says we shall have no King but Euron Greyjoy. Let the sea wash your follies and your vanities away. Let the old Euron drown. Let his lungs fill with seawater. Let the fish eat the scales off his eyes."

"What is dead may never die," chanted the remaining ironborn.

"What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger," the Damphair recited.

Underwater, Euron did not struggle at first but soon started thrashing a bit and gradually a lot more before his movements ceased—causing the Drowned Man to release his grip. He thrashed and panicked no more when the final air bubbles came out; the remaining ironborn dragged the drowned Euron back to shore and gathered in attendance around him—thunder booming and lightning bolts lighting up the sky. As one man pressed on his stomach and chest, Euron did not move. Before one could walk close enough, Euron gags and coughs.

"*kaff!* *kaff!* *hack!* *blurgh!*" he propped himself up on his arms and legs, spitting up water and gasping for air. Euron allowed himself to breathe once more as he felt his men place the crown made of driftwood on his head.

"What is dead may never die!" they cheered.

Euron rose to his feet and looks around at the crowd. "The Young Stag will be absolutely surprised to see me again; I'm actually looking forward to seeing the look on his face once word spreads. Go back to your homes! Gather whatever resource we have left, something Daveth Baratheon might've missed. Reinforce our ships and I will give you this world!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry I wasn't able to update as quickly as you'd like – I've been feeling rather sick for a few days but I'm a bit better now. With the Sparrows gone and Daveth planning for the eventual return of his wife Sansa to celebrate their wedding anniversary, an old enemy from the Oathkeeper's past made his return to the world: Euron Greyjoy. How will the terrifyingly sadistic and utterly psychopathic villain impact the Game of Thrones world once Daveth learns of his return? A storm is brewing as stag and kraken will soon clash once more. Thoughts? Let me know.


	121. R + L = J

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran Stark accidentally discovers the truth.

**In Meereen…**

* * *

With the Dragon Queen's flight from Meereen following the Sons of the Harpy attack, the task of governing fell to Jon Connington and Daenerys' trusted advisors Missandei and Grey Worm. Following Drogon's disappearance and the Golden Company's arrival, the sellsword company quietly patrolled the streets with the Unsullied. Tensions remained high once word reached Connington of the slave masters of Astapor, Yunkai and Volantis formed an alliance with the intention of laying siege to Meereen and reinstall slavery.

"Still at war, one in the shadows and the other set to lay siege at a moment's notice. The slave masters retook Astapor and Yunkai, returning the whole of Slaver's Baay outside of Meereen," the former Lord of Griffin's Roost realized. "With our fleets burned, we cannot engage them in naval warfare unless the other dragons are released from their confinements before the slaver alliance attacks us. Even the Golden Company's archers, elephants and trebuchets simply cannot reach them."

"We are searching for the men who burned the ships, but nobody saw anything," Grey Worm noted.

"And the dragons?"

Missandei raised her head slightly, yet slightly averted her eyes. "They are not eating," she answered. "They haven't touched any food since Queen Daenerys left."

"Dragons don't do well in captivity," Connington scoffed.

"How do you know this?" she asked.

"When Queen Daenerys' ancestor Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros, he had a much smaller army yet three large dragons: Balerion, Vhagar and Meraxes. Each one ranged over hundreds of miles before finally invading and unified six of the Seven Kingdoms in the War of Conquest.  _Six_  out of seven; the world came to understand the full might the Targaryen dragons wielded. Aegon Targaryen changed the rules. That's why every man, woman and child alive in Westeros still knows his name 300 years after his death." He explained before taking a sip of wine from his goblet unconcerned. "But after the unification under Targaryen rule, they chained up their dragons and confined them in pens. As such, their power and size waned drastically until the last were no larger than cats a century and a half later… before the Dance of the Dragons civil war wiped them out until Daenerys came into possession of three petrified dragon eggs. If the dragons beneath the Great Pyramid remain in confinement, they'll end up wasting away like their ancient brethren."

"If a dragon does not want to eat, how do you force him to eat?" asked Grey Worm.

Jon hummed and looked at Missandei. "Tell me, child, how many times were you in the company of these dragons? Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion?" he asked.

"Many times," she answered.

"And during such moments, did they ever harm you?"

"Never."

"Well, there lies your answer, Grey Worm," he remarked. "Dragons are more intelligent than people give them credit for according to some Maesters back home. They're loyal to friends who've earned their trust and dangerous to their enemies who threaten them. The more they eat, the larger they will grow. And the larger they grow, the more they'll eat. Once we've proven to be their friends, they will consume once more…  _after_  they're released fist."

During the middle of the conversations, one of the Golden Company mercenaries—Lysono Maar, the Lyseni company spymaster—approached donning inlaid gold armor.

"Lord Connington, our scouts report that the Masters are mobilizing their fleets," he reports.

Connington remained unfazed, even if Grey Worm and Missandei were taken aback. "This is an unexpected move for the Masters. It's too aggressive. How many ships did your men see?"

"Somewhere around 200, give or take."

"How long before we expect them to arrive?"

"A few days if we're lucky."

Connington scratched his red-grey beard, ignoring the fact two or three of his fingers were missing from his earlier amputation. "Inform Captain Strickland to mobilize the other commanders and prepare for an inevitable showdown. Should the Masters send their infantry on land, unleash the cavalry unit and perhaps some war elephants to assist the Unsullied," he ordered. "Keep your scouts at a distance and relay more should you discover more."

As soon as Lysono left, Connington turned towards the Great Pyramid of Meereen.

"Where are you going?" asked Missandei.

He turned to look at her. "To feed the dragons," he simply replied.

Descending the steps into the dragons' holding chamber, Connington lit a torch to light his way as he walked further downwards. Upon reaching the floor, the former Lord of Griffin's Roost stopped moving and stared into the darkness, where a faint growling can be heard. Connington cautiously stood his ground without fear or hesitation – watching as one of the dragons, Rhaegal, emerges from the shadows with his brother Viserion following close behind.

*"Hiisssssss!"*

*"Grrrrrr!"*

Viserion lights a fire in his mouth and roars loudly. Rhaegal approaches with a small roar. Despite the intimidation, Connington showed no signs of fear or concern for his safety.

"Steady now," he said reassuringly yet cautiously. "I'm a friend of your mother, and I'm here to help you. You  _do not_  eat the help."

Rhaegal continued growling as Connington approached.

"Such fascinating creatures you two are. You know… back in Westeros 172 years ago, after a bloody civil war between Rhaenyra Targaryen and her half-brother Aegon II for control of the Seven Kingdoms, everyone throughout the world believed dragons to be extinct… But here you are. Your mother hatched you. She loved you, she raised you." he touches Rhaegal on the neck. "All three of you."

Gripping one of the pistons keeping Rhaegal's collar close in one hand, Connington pulled back to release the locking pin and felt the chains and shackles loosen before falling to the ground—freeing the dragon from its confinements. Despite Rhaegal's initial hostility towards Connington, the dragon merely shrugged and walked away. Connington glanced behind him and noticed Viserion quickly closed in on him—but much to his surprise, the youngest dragon gingerly turned its head sideways to expose its neck, beckoning the stranger to free him as well.

"You're free now," Connington whispered to Viserion.

Like how he handled Rhaegal, Connington released the locking pin on Viserion's collar and watched both dragons growling in appreciation before disappearing into the darkness. With a loud roar, Rhaegal and Viserion shot flames from their mouths to blast open a homemade exit for the two of them to fly out of.

Connington watched Rhaegal and Viserion taking flight. "Hahahaha. Yes, take a moment to exercise your muscles now," he remarked with a cold, triumphant smile. "When the time for battle comes, the whole world will tremble in the shadows of your wings. The slave masters are only appetizers… but the Usurper's boy Daveth Baratheon is the main course, along with all who follow him. Hahahahaha!"

* * *

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

Bran continued his training with the Three-Eyed Raven beneath a Great Weirwood Tree. Experiencing yet another vision of the past, Bran and his mentor again find themselves in Dorne—but standing next to a tower along the northern edge of the Red Mountains.

"The Tower of Joy," he examined.

The Three-Eyed Raven nodded. "The final engagement of the civil war—one that the histories remember as Robert's Rebellion—took place at this exact location 22 years ago."

"I remember the lessons from Maester Luwin when I was a boy. King Robert overthrew the Targaryen dynasty and established Baratheon rule. It's still around today."

"Where the lands you grew up on continue to thrive under the leadership of King Robert's son and your brother-in-law Daveth Baratheon, according to the maesters; but every scholar must learn the importance of how the wheels were set in motion to begin with."

"How did you…?"

The Three-Eyed Raven did not answer, but instead pointed in a certain direction to get Bran's attention. The younger Stark narrowed his eyes to catch a glance at what his mentor was pointing at before he noticed seven knights riding into view on horseback. Bran turned behind him and looked over his shoulder to see two Kingsguard knights sitting at the front of the tower; one of which is Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. The other beside him was Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard under the Mad King. Both men donned special silver armor adorned with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen on their breastplate.

"Ser Arthur Dayne," he noticed.

"The Sword of the Morning," the Three-Eyed Raven pointed out.

"Father said he was the best swordsman he ever saw."

Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven moved to an outcropping to watch the events unfold as the men dismounted their horses until Bran recognized one of them.

"That's my father," he noticed.

"And the man beside him is Howland Reed, Meera's father," the Three-Eyed Raven pointed out.

Eddard Stark in his youth barely had a few hairs on his chin, thin enough to be mistaken for a clean shaven face and lighter brown hair reaching his shoulders. Eddard at that time was at the peak of his youthful prime, a year and a half into his role as the new Lord of Winterfell following the deaths of his father and brother Rickard and Brandon. By then, the Mad King Aerys II Targaryen was assassinated by Ser Jaime and Lord Robert had already killed Prince Rhaegar at the Battle of the Trident.

Eddard was leading his armies to sweep aside any remaining Targaryen loyalists as he moved south with his men until he arrived in Dorne. His mission was a personal one: locate and rescue his younger sister, Lyanna Stark—who was allegedly abducted by the Crown Prince, a controversial scandal that caused one of the bloodiest civil wars to begin.

Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold walk past Bran to approach Eddard and his six Northmen companions. Swinging Dawn in his hand, Arthur stabs his blade into the dirt.

_"Lord Stark,"_  the Sword of the Morning greeted.

Young Eddard ignored him.  _"I looked for you on the Trident,"_  he said to them.

_"We weren't there."_

_"Your friend the Usurper would've laid beneath the ground if we had been,"_  said Ser Gerold.

_"King's Landing has fallen. The Mad King is dead. Rhaegar lies beneath the ground,"_  the Quiet Wolf countered.  _"Why weren't either of you there to protect your Prince?"_

_"Our Prince ordered us here,"_  Ser Arthur answered.  _"But rest assured, our false brother will one day burn in the darkest corner of the Seven hells for breaking his oath."_

_"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege, and the Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners and all their knights bent the knee to pledge us fealty. I was certain you would be among them. Think of your sister and her little girl, Ser Arthur."_

The Sword of the Morning remained calm and composed.  _"Our knees do not bend easily."_

Ser Gerold took one step forward.  _"Ser Willem Darry fled to Dragonstone with Queen Rhaella and Prince Viserys. He is a good man and true. We of the Kingsguard, on the other hand, do not flee."_

_"Not now, not ever."_

_"We swore a solemn vow, and take our oaths seriously."_

Young Eddard shook his head with resignation, but looked up the Tower of Joy when he heard a painfully loud bloodcurdling scream emanating from behind Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur. Judging by the volume, the Quiet Wolf recognized who that voice belonged to and felt his inner rage boil.

_"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!"_

_"Where is my sister? Give Lyanna back,"_  he demanded.

Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, shook his head and donned his helm with his comrade.  _"I wish you good fortune in the wars to come,"_  he said.  _"And now it begins."_  He raised Dawn with one hand from the ground and unsheathed a longsword in the other. Wielding two swords with both hands, the Sword of the Morning was ready for battle. Dawn was pale as milkglass, alive with light.

_"No,"_  Eddard replied with pity in his voice.  _"Now it ends."_

***CLASH!***

***SWING!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

Young Eddard and his men draw their blades and charge forward to attack. Howland was the first to lunge, but Ser Arthur blocks his attack and slices him along his midsection. As Howland fell to the ground and rolled off to the side in agony, Ser Gerold runs one of Eddard's men through with his sword before Eddard engages him in single combat and stabs him through the throat.

By then, the second round was beginning. Young Eddard and his companions surrounded and easily outnumbered Ser Arthur Dayne. It was four against one, but the Sword of the Morning was frighteningly calm and full of confidence. Swinging both swords in his hands, Ser Arthur flashed his weapons to his enemies as they formed a circle around him. Eddard, Willam Dustin, Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel clashed swords with Ser Arthur simultaneously, but were taken by surprise at the Sword of the Morning's superior speed, strength, and grace—easily outshining them all.

***CLASH!***

***SWING!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

Despite being outnumbered, Ser Arthur easily maneuvered himself out of the circle and kicked Martyn in the chest away from him—once he stumbled, the Sword of the Morning danced and spun around and cut down Martyn before returning his focus to the other combatants. Ser Arthur blocked Eddard's and Willam's swords and kicked away a charging Ethan before disarming Willam's shield. He crossed both swords against Ethan's and pressed forward until he felt the cold steel press against the Northmen's throat. With one, swift fluid motion, the Sword of the Morning sliced open Ethan's throat before impaling Willam through the chest with Dawn.

Now the tense duel was reduced to an even fight: one-on-one combat. Young Eddard knew Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, was already a formidable opponent—regarded by many as one of the deadliest knights who ever lived. Even though the Quiet Wolf was a formidable fighter, even he knew he was no match for the Sword of the Morning. To Ser Arthur, this fight was merely child's play. He could easily cut down the entire Kingswood Brotherhood with one hand while using the other to take a piss without breaking a sweat.

Both men assumed an offensive fighting style before clashing once more.

***CLASH!***

***SWING!***

***CLANG!***

***SLASH!***

Eddard and Ser Arthur engage in a vicious duel, blocking each other's strikes and maneuvering around one another to gain a vantage point as Bran and the Three-Eyed Raven both continued watching from the sidelines.

"He's better than my father," Bran remarked.

" _Far_  better," the Three-Eyed Raven nodded.

"But father beat him."

"Did he?"

"I know he did! I heard the story a thousand times."

As the duel intensified, Ser Arthur easily gains the upper hand and traps Eddard's blade and wrenches it from his hands, kicking it away from him. Now left without a nearby weapon and completely at his mercy, Eddard froze. Before he could deliver the final blow, Ser Arthur heard footsteps from behind him.

***PLORKK!***

"Blurgh!" the Sword of the Morning gasped and falls to his knees, spewing blood from his mouth.

Eddard looked over to see Howland back on his feet only to find the Crannogmen had viciously stabbed Ser Arthur through the back of the neck. The Quiet Wolf appears visibly uncomfortable at winning this way, but hesitatingly picks up Dawn and wields it high up in the air. Although in agony and unprepared for the dishonorable attack from behind, Ser Arthur weakly lifts his head to look up at Eddard, blood pouring out of his throat—by the look in his eyes, the Sword of the Morning seems resigned to his fate; he had done his duty to the last.

"He stabbed him in the back," Bran says in shock.

***SLASH!***

Swinging Dawn in his hand, Eddard delivers the killing blow to the incapacitated Ser Arthur Dayne, killing the legendary Sword of the Morning and sparing him from suffering a slower, crueler death. Bran watches on in confusion as he had heard tales of this duel and never expected his father to stand up for such things.

_"GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHH!"_  a woman screams once more.

Eddard looks up at the Tower of Joy and storms towards it.

"What's in the tower?" asks Bran.

"That's enough for one day," the Three-Eyed Raven says dismissively. "We'll visit again another time."

"I want to see where he's going."

"Time to go."

Bran disregards his mentor's advice and gives chase. "Father!" he yells.

Young Eddard stops on the stairs and turns around in the direction of Bran's yelling but sees nothing and proceeds up the stairs. He hears his sister's screaming and rushes as fast as he possibly could—unaware of Bran following close behind him, still disregarding the Three-Eyed Raven's warnings. Bran watches as Eddard bursts through a door into a bedroom. The scene that greeted him was one that shook him to his very core.

His younger sister, Lyanna Stark, was lying in bed with sheets soaked in blood. She looked frighteningly pale and weak, her pants quiet and face covered in sweat with strands of her long black hair sticking to her.

_"N… Ned?"_  she asks weakly, unaware of the new visitor.

_"Lyanna!"_  Eddard rushes to her side.

_"*huff* Ned? Is… *huff* is that you? *huff* Is that really you? *huff*"_  she shakenly raises a hand up. When Lyanna feels Eddard taking it in his own, she gives a weak smile.  _"You're… *huff* you're not a dream."_

Eddard shakes his head, trying to put on a warm smile.  _"No, I'm not a dream. I'm here. Right here."_

_"*huff* I've missed you, big brother… *huff*"_

Eddard begins to cry.  _"I've missed you too,"_  his voice cracked.

Lyanna begins to cry too.  _"I… I'm so sorry… for what I did. About father… and Brandon, I— I want to be brave,"_  she weeps.

_"Shh! You are."_

_"No, I'm not!"_

Eddard lifts his hand from Lyanna's stomach to see his palm covered in blood. His eyes widen with fear and panic.

_"I don't want to die,"_  Lyanna begs.

_"You're not going to die!"_  Eddard shakes his head and turns to a handmaiden.  _"Someone get her some water! Is there a maester?! By the Old Gods, someone help her!—"_

Lyanna weakly grabs her brother's arm.  _"No, no water. Please. Listen to me, Ned,"_  she pulls him close when she sees a newborn baby being delivered to her; feeling her life's energy slipping away, Lyanna whispers into Eddard's ear.  _"My son… His name is Aegon Targaryen. If Robert finds out, he'll kill him. You know he will. You have to protect him. Promise me, Ned. Promise me,"_  she begs.

As the handmaiden hands Eddard the child, he takes a moment to look at his newborn nephew. The baby slowly opened his eyes to look up at his uncle, his dark-hair and brown eyes indicated he was spared the Targaryen traits of silver hair and violet eyes; the child looked more like a Stark and would sadly not know his mother or father at all.

Eddard closed his eyes tight to prevent tears from spilling.  _"I… I promise, Lyanna. I'll take good care of him. I promise."_

Lyanna smiled weakly.  _"Thank… thank you, Ned,"_  her breathing grew weaker and weaker.  _"Give him… a name… Keep… him… safe… Promise me…"_

Eddard felt his sister's hand grow limp and plop onto the blood-soaked bed. His throat tightened and body shook with grief, knowing that Lyanna had let go of life. She passed away, yet Eddard felt more alone in this world with the exception of his newborn nephew fussing about before letting out a piercing cry.

_"Wha… what are you going to call him, my lord?"_  asked one of the worried handmaidens.

The Quiet Wolf did not look at them.  _"Lyanna was right about one thing. I do know Robert, and I know he'll stop at nothing to kill every Targaryen in the world… including this one. No, even if he is my friend I won't let him touch him."_

_"Lord Stark?"_

_"By the Old Gods, Catelyn will never forgive me for this… but I will take this child back to Winterfell with me, give him a new name and raise him as my own son – no matter how much dishonor falls on me."_

_"My lord—"_

_"Jon Snow,"_  he snapped.  _"From here on out, his name is Jon Snow… my bastard son."_

Bran's eyes widened with surprise. Did his father literally just say that? His mind raced as the Three-Eyed Raven touches his shoulder and brought him back to the cave. The white leaves Bran's eyes as the vision fades. The Three-Eyed Raven is tangled in his roots with a Child of the Forest looks on. Once Bran realized where he was again, he crawled towards his mentor.

"My half-brother… he was my cousin this whole time?!" he said in disbelief. "Why? I want to go back! I need to know more!"

"No," the Three-Eyed Raven refused. "The past is already written. The ink is dry. I've told you many times, stay too long where you don't belong and you will never return."

Bran looked upset. "Why do I want to return? So I can be a cripple again? So I can talk to an old man in a tree?!"

"You think I wanted to sit here for 1,000 years watching the world from a distance as the roots grew through me?"

"So why did you?"

"The answer was obvious. I was waiting for you."

"I don't  _want_  to be  _you_."

The Three-Eyed Raven sighed. "I don't blame you. You won't be here forever. You won't be an old man in a tree. But before you leave the cave, you must learn."

"Learn what?" asked Bran.

" _Everything,_ " he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While Jon Connington readies Meereen for battle against the Slavers Alliance, we get a different rendition of what happens at the Tower of Joy. So here's my take on the R+L=J fan theory and Bran's reaction on learning that his bastard half-brother Jon Snow is actually his paternal cousin Aegon Targaryen. As he continues training to become the new Three-Eyed Raven, how will this knowledge affect the Seven Kingdoms especially since Daveth Baratheon rules the realm? Thoughts? Let me know.


	122. Bonding Brothers, Reunions and Old Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daveth trains Tommen in the art of combat and reunites with Sansa; The Hound, meanwhile, tries to start over?

**At the Red Keep…**

* * *

Daveth and Tommen had begun their day in the courtyard—the two brothers had been sparring, with the eldest Baratheon instructing the youngest on the art of swordsmanship; albeit with practice swords. Although the sword material itself was entirely made out of wood, getting whacked by them still hurt and regularly stung if hit hard enough. So far, the Young Cub was struggling during his lessons.

Tommen flailed his wooden sword, which Daveth easily deflects and kicks his brother's foot out from under him and he lands face first in the dirt.

"Oomph!" he grunted upon impact.

Daveth looked down at him. "Don't lunge, don't cross your feet. You swing a sword like a girl with palsy when you do that," he lectured almost scoldingly.

Tommen pushes himself back up and picked up his discarded wooden shield, determined to keep learning how to defend himself. Day and night the Young Cub yearned to be great fighter like his older brother, but for some reason he never seemed to get any closer to that goal. He never held a sword in his life, but after what happened with the Sparrows… Tommen is actually trying his best to improve himself.

***POCK!***

***WHAM!***

Tommen raised his practice sword for a first strike, but his brother continued parrying a series of strokes whilst he was putting in too much an effort to try to breach his defenses. When he saw Daveth shift his position, Tommen believed he saw an opening and thrust forward but was tripped up again and fell face first into the dirt again.

***POCK!***

***POCK!***

*****POCK!*** **

*****WHAM!*** **

"Don't go where your enemy leads you. If the bait is obvious, don't take it otherwise you risk being led straight into a trap. Now get up."

Bruised, sore and covered in dirt, Tommen shook his head—clearly frustrated that he was deceived. After constantly being tossed into the ground, training to fight was showing to be quite difficult; on the other hand, though, Daveth did warn him ahead of time that it wasn't going to be easy nor would he show leniency considering his age. He reached out to grab the sword and got back to his feet. It took a moment to regain his balance before moving to swing again, but is met with a quick jab in the gut.

"*gak!*" Tommen gasped and fell to the ground holding his stomach as he felt the wind getting knocked out of him.

Daveth towered over him. "Oh for the love of— Tommen, there's a shield in your hand! Block with it or I'll ring your head like a bell."

"*cough!* *cough!* You didn't say you'd *cough!* hit me, brother."

"Well I never said I  _wouldn't_  hit you now did I? Had you started training with Ser Aron Santagar when he was still alive eight years ago, maybe then you would've made at least some progress. But now? If this was a real one-on-one fight, you would've been dead six times in less than a minute already."

"That's… *cough!* a bit harsh."

"Of course it's harsh! It's called reality. I'm out here busting my ass trying to teach you how to defend yourself because you insisted."

Tommen steadily rose to his feet. "Was this… how Ser Olyvar's training felt when he squired for you?" he asked.

Daveth shook his head. "You'll have to ask him that yourself."

As the two brothers resumed their sparring session, Grand Maester Pycelle approached; the sound of chains clanking against his robes could barely be heard—but the Young Stag suspected who it was that came his way.

"Oh, eh… A-apologies for interrupting your time of leisure. I o-only meant to inform you that th-the Queen is arriving in th-the harbor," the old man informed him.

Daveth and Tommen stopped mid-swing.

_'Sansa,'_  the Young Stag thought. "I see. Have the other royal councilors ready to welcome her back properly," he turned to his youngest brother. "Tommen, that'll be all for today. Go get yourself cleaned up and fetch my son and daughter."

****—15 minutes later—** **

Daveth and the Small Council advisors stood waiting at the docks, watching as  _The Winter's Voyage_  finally came into view and arrived at perfect timing. Lyonel and Cassana were being held by their father, though that didn't stop the royal twins from barely containing their excitement at being reunited with their mother.

"Mommy! Mommy!" the twins squealed.

"Shhh! Steady now, you two," Daveth told them.

The vessel soon docked and allowed its crew members to disembark via a gangplank. Once most of the luggage was unloaded, the attendees saw Queen Sansa descending the gangplank with Brienne, Olyvar, Lucius, Ariyana and Jeyne following close behind her. Even still Sansa emanated such elegance, grace and compassion. Her swollen belly was often hidden underneath her Northern fur cloak, but Daveth and Catelyn noticed it right away.

As Sansa steadily approached, both Lyonel and Cassana broke rank and protocol and darted towards their mother.

"Mommy! Mommy!" they shouted excitedly.

Sansa smiled warmly and knelt down and spread her arms wide to embrace her children. "Ooh, my babies," she cooed. "My goodness, look at how big you two grew! Were you good to daddy and grandma?"

"We wuv you, mommy."

"I love you too, little ones. Mommy's missed you both very much."

Sansa kissed Lyonel and Cassana's heads, though the twins goofily tried to reciprocate—with the Wolf Queen chuckling at their acts of affection. Catelyn watched her daughter and grandchildren in such a warm reunion; Daveth watched as his wife approached them with their children in tow. Once close, Daveth and Sansa give each other a hug.

"My Queen," he greeted.

"My King," she returned the gesture.

"Welcome back to the capital, Your Grace," Varys chimed. "I'm sure you must be soaked from when the storm hit."

Sansa shook her head. "Your concern is appreciated, Lord Varys. But I'm fine."

Brienne approached Daveth and handed Stormbringer. "Your sword, Your Grace," she said.

"Hmm. Thank you for keeping my wife safe, Brienne," the Young Stag gripped the Valyrian steel sword and fastened it to his waistline again. His eyes soon catch Jeyne Poole, who hid behind Sansa. "I see that your friend has… opted to accompany you back to King's Landing, Sansa. Might I ask what happened up in the North?" he asked.

What Daveth had failed to understand was how intimidating he must've looked in the eyes of someone who's been seriously traumatized. The moment Jeyne noticed Daveth staring directly at her, she flinched, broke eye contact, looked away and her body began to tremble slightly; Sansa noticed.

"I invited Jeyne to come here. She's going to be living with us at the Red Keep as one of my ladies-in-waiting… just until she finds her feet."

Daveth eyed the frightened Jeyne up and down. "Hmm. Until she finds her feet, she can stay as a guest of House Baratheon."

"Th-thank you, kind ser. I, I mean, Your Grace," she stammered. "I-I promise I won't get in the way."

"Then if that's settled, let's go back to the Red Keep. I imagine we all have a lot to discuss."

"With all due respect," Varys chimed, "I imagine you'd want to spend more time with your wife now that she's come home. Why don't you take a moment to enjoy yourselves? It's rather easier on the mind, body and spirit when the day's burdens are lifted off the shoulders of those who carry too much weight."

"Varys—"

"If it'll make you feel better, should any important matter comes to our attention you will be informed."

Daveth sighed exasperatedly.

****—Later that night—** **

Daveth and Sansa shared a brief moment to themselves that night at the Red Keep. In their bedchamber they exchanged words of what the other endured while away from one another; the Wolf Queen informed her husband of the incident in the North, the elimination of House Bolton, Ramsay Snow's attempted coup d'état and the horrific abuses her friend Jeyne endured. Daveth, in turn, informed Sansa of the religious fanatic Sparrows, their attack on him and the traitor in the Faith of the Seven's Most Devout.

"Sounds like we both had to face our own trials. The High Sparrow and his followers," Sansa remarked.

Daveth nodded once. "I imagine having to deal with Ramsay was more difficult. Not just on the battlefield, but psychologically as well."

"It wasn't anything us Starks couldn't handle, love."

"I don't deny it. You Northmen are hard to kill."

"But even if it's just for a moment, at least we get a moment to ourselves; you, me and the children."

_'Got to make the best of what you have,'_  the Young Stag mentally exclaimed. "Speaking of such, I… brought you something, Sansa."

Sansa blinked. "For me?"

Daveth stood from his seat and took Sansa's hand, escorting her over to the other side of the room. Pulling a curtain aside, Sansa's eyes widened and placed both her hands over her mouth in surprise at the sight: a mixture of flowers in a fancy decorative glass vase containing red roses, yellow daises, white lilies and lilacs and purple hydrangeas. Next to it was a crown of blue winter roses and a fancy crown resembling the ancient Kings in the North. The lit candles in the room emanated enough light to make them glow and shine.

"D-Daveth, I'm… speechless. I don't know what to say," she said surprised. "You did all this for me?"

"Shae and Bodrin helped me pick out which flowers you'd probably like. Had the forgers get every detail done on that crown. Well, that and our children drew you a few pictures—"

Sansa hugged Daveth. "Oh Daveth, sometimes I wonder what it is I possibly could've done to deserve you."

"Then does this… please you?"

She nods. "Mhmm. The gifts, you, our children… I think I have just the thing to give to you on our marriage anniversary." Sansa slowly guides her husband's left hand and places it on her pregnant stomach; currently three months along, she was showing a larger bump in her second first trimester entering into the next likely as if her body remembered from the first experience.

Daveth already knew this when he received the letter and looked at her. "Boy or girl?" he asked with a small grin.

"I don't know."

He then surprised her again when he placed both hands at her waist; Sansa looked down and noticed the two of them swayed from side to side. It wasn't until the Wolf Queen realized what it was her husband was actually making her do with him. On the day of their anniversary they were dancing atop the balcony with lit candles illuminating the area with additional assistance of the full moon.

Sansa couldn't help but chuckle with amusement. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Teehee."

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I see you've been working on your dancing skills."

Daveth raised an eyebrow. "I take it you're going to laugh at me? We haven't danced like this since our wedding night. If I need more practice, I'll—"

"On the contrary, love," Sansa shook her head as they whirled with smooth grace. "Your dancing has improved much since then."

"Is it not a man's duty to surprise his wife on special occasions?"

"One of many qualities, but yes it's something most young maidens fantasize."

"Like you were once?" Daveth jested.

Sansa rolled her eyes. "Oh very funny, Daveth. Congratulations for ruining such a romantic moment," she placed her hand on his chest.

"Complain all you want. You know you're enjoying yourself."

The Wolf Queen gently shushed her husband and pulled him close, bringing her lips to his. Daveth and Sansa kissed. As they kissed, full of hunger and desire, their tongues battled for dominance.

"Mmm," she moaned happily.

Daveth wrapped hands around her waist and Sansa placed hers on his chest and around his neck. For a moment, they were lost in each other before they broke apart, just staring into each other's eyes.

"Happy anniversary, Sansa," Daveth said.

"Happy anniversary, Daveth," Sansa replied. "Daveth?"

"Hmm?"

"Your hand is on my ass."

Daveth blinked before he noticed his right hand was placed on her buttocks and quickly brought it back up to his wife's waist. "Oh. I, ah, sorry," he apologized rather embarrassed.

"Pervert. You never change, do you?"

"I swear I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know, love. I'm just teasing." Sansa rested her head on her husband's shoulder. "But still, thank you for the presents. It means a lot to me."

Daveth brushed his hand across Sansa's auburn hair; silky and smooth, his wife's hair had a soft delicate touch. He held her close and took in her scent, a sharp sweet fragrance with a hint of lemons, peaches and honeyed wine. Even in the embrace both felt how much they missed the other. The Young Stag lifted Sasna's chin up and kissed her again, though the tender moment was brought about by the sound of high-pinched whining.

"Eeew!"

Both Daveth and Sansa turned to see Lyonel and Cassana making disgusted faces.

"Who asked you to watch, pups? And what are you two doing out of bed at this hour?" their father remarked.

"No sleepy," Cassana whined.

"We wan' stowy!" Lyonel demanded.

Daveth rolled his eyes. Sansa, however, smiled.

"Okay. If mommy tells you a story, will you two promise to go to sleep?" she asked in a motherly tone.

Both twins quickly nodded their heads yes. Sansa withdrew herself from her husband's embrace and led Lyonel and Cassana to the bed and lay down beside them to tuck them under the covers. Once she was certain both underneath the bedsheets and their pillows were comfortably adjusted for them, Sansa motioned for Daveth to lay across from her with their twins resting in the middle—a request he obliged.

"All right, children. How about I tell you a story about Florian the Fool and his Lady Jonquil?"

Lyonel and Cassana snuggled in the bed and listened to their mother reciting a bedtime story for them.

"'Once there lived a maiden named Jonquil,'" she begun. "'She was beautiful and clever, but even if she looked like an old boot men would have gazed upon her with longing and sung songs of her beauty and goodness for she was the only child of a great lord.'"

Daveth propped his closed fist against his cheek, watching Sansa telling one of her favorite stories to their children. The twins looked purely innocent as their eyes slowly started closing; although they fought hard to stay awake, Lyonel and Cassana soon fell asleep when Sansa neared the end of  _The Tale of Florian and Jonquil_.

"'And this time, she went with him. From the damp dark caves, from the noble skirmishes of Westeros, to the Golden Cities across the sea. And there they lived out their days together, free.'" She smiled at the sight of her children slumped over in their sleep, their small chests rising and falling. Sansa soon brought herself under the bedsheet and brought her arms around them, cuddling them in their sleep. "Sleep well, my little ones. Dream nothing but sweet dreams."

Daveth followed his wife, but instead wrapped his left arm protectively around all three of them: Sansa, their son and daughter. In his mind, if it was a mother's task of nurturing their children, then surely it was the father's job to protect his family from harm. The Young Stag and Wolf Queen gazed lovingly at each other as each of the twins turned in their sleep and cuddled at whoever was closer to them. When Lyonel nuzzled up against his mother, Cassana did the same with her father.

"Such a little mama's boy and daddy's girl," Sansa whispered.

"Do you think we've spoiled them?" Daveth whispered.

"Only time will tell once they've grown up some more. We're still learning."

"I suppose you're right."

Sansa yawned. "I love you."

"As do I."

* * *

****Somewhere in the Riverlands…** **

* * *

On rich, fertile farmlands many men are seen performing various tasks pertaining to the construction of a church in their village while the women were busy preparing food. The small village in the Riverlands had no lord, no mayor… they all consisted of a local congregation under Brother Ray, a veteran of the War of Ninepenny Kings and a former mercenary reformed as a man of peace, becoming an ordained traveling Septon serving the Faith of the Seven.

"That's it. Get it to the top," one of the villagers motioned for the logs being lifted.

"Steady now. Steady," spoke another.

Brother Ray stood beneath the framing. "Up she goes," he addressed the two men hoisting up a log. He turns to another man and slaps him on the back. "Hey, come on. Put your back into it, huh?"

Before long, he turned around and walked a few paces away. Grabbing an axe, he lifts it up to a man standing on the church framing and waves them in. He hurries beneath one of the logs and laughs. In a field a little ways off, more men are carrying larger logs. One in particular—a tall, muscular man—dropped two heavy logs in front of the framing and wipes aside the sweat from his brow, revealing to be Sandor "the Hound" Clegane. No longer donning his signature dark heavy armor and instead an olive vest with light green shirt and pants, Sandor picked up a nearby axe and repeatedly swings it onto a horizontal log, sending wood chips flying everywhere.

"Look mister!" a little girl showed her doll. "Look what Brother Ray got me!"

Sandor huffed and looked down at the child. Normally his mere presence and size alone would've been enough to intimidate those around him, but for some reason the little girl showed no fear and displayed the exact opposite. Indeed, nearly everyone in Ray's congregation treated him kindly.

"Good for him," he replied simply.

"Want him to get you something too?"

"No."

Ray walked up behind him. "Haleigh, your mother's looking for you," he told her. As soon as she left to the village, he returned his focus to Sandor. "In all my days I've never seen a man swing an axe like that. How many men did it take to cut you down?"

"None yet," he replied gruffly.

"Yet little Haleigh show no fear of you."

"Strange. Good kid, but keeping people like her secluded and isolated will only serve as an eye-opener when trouble does come knocking."

"Maybe, but I think some of the men here are a bit afraid of you."

"I'm used to it," Sandor drinks an entire cup of water. "Girl wouldn't stop shoving her doll in my face."

"I presume that you were never shown compassion from a child?" Ray asked.

Sandor huffed again. "She said you gave her that. Well," he pointed at the gruesome burned facial scarring on the right side of his face, "my brother gave me  _this_! I was 7 when he did that; pressed me to the fire like I was a nice juicy mutton chop."

Even the peaceful Ray was slightly disturbed. "Why would he do that?"

"Thought I stole one of his toys. I didn't steel it. I was just playing with it." A sudden mental image of a young Sandor Clegane playing like a normal child came into mind. "The pain was bad, but the smell was worse. That's not even the worst part. The worst thing was that it was my own brother who did it. My father, who protected him… told everyone my bedding caught fire. I wanted revenge. Been after it all my life… 'til that fuckin' trial robbed me of it," His face turned with disgust at the memory of learning of Ser Gregor's death at the Trial by Seven.

"What kept you going in life?"

"Hate."

"No matter how tragic your reasons for feeling hate or craving revenge, clinging on to that hatred will destroy you," Ray said. "No, I believe there's a reason you're still here."

Sandor spat. "Aye, there's a reason. I'm a big fucker and I'm tough to kill."

"No, I meant a reason. The Gods aren't done with you yet."

"I've heard that before, though Beric Dondarrion talked about a different God."

"Well, maybe he was right. I don't know much about the Gods."

"Then you're probably in the wrong line of work."

"Oh, there's plenty of pious sons of bitches who think they know the word of God or Gods," Ray laughed. "I don't. I don't even know their real names. Maybe it is the Seven. Or maybe it's the Old Gods up north. Or maybe it's the Lord of Light. Or maybe they're all the same fucking thing. I don't know. What matters, I believe, is that there's something greater than us. And whatever it is, it's got plans for Sandor Clegane."

Sandor just sat there and stares at Ray who nods at him and sat down on a stump next to one of the men.

"Believe it or not, I was a soldier once. Back in the War of the Ninepenny Kings 44 years ago," he continued. "All my superiors thought I was brave. I wasn't. I mean, I never ran from a fight. Only because I was afraid my friends would see I was afraid. That's all I was, a coward. We followed orders no matter the orders. Burn that village. Fine, I'm your arsonist. Steal that farmer's crops. Good, I'm your thief. Kill those young lads so they won't take up arms against us. I'm your murderer. I remember once a woman screaming at us, calling us animals as we dragged her son from their hut. But we weren't animals. Animals are true to their nature and we had betrayed ours. I cut that young boy's throat myself as his mother screamed and my friends held her back."

One of the farmers, Clarrik, looked up at him. "What happened next, Brother Ray?" he asked intrigued.

"One night, I felt such shame. Shame was so heavy on me. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep. All I could do was stare into that dark sky and listen to that mother screaming her son's name. I'll hear her screaming the rest of my life. Now, I know I can never bring that lad back. All I can do with time I've got left is bring a little goodness into the world. That's all any of us could do, isn't it? Never too late to stop robbing people, to stop killing people. Start helping people." Ray turned to Sandor. "It's never too late to come back."

The Hound returns Ray's gaze but is distracted by the approach of four horsemen coming his way. Brother Ray turned and noticed them too; as the four men stopped, all villagers stood up as Ray moved to greet them. Sandor, however, recognized that neither of them carried any banners or wore sigils of their hose. They looked like a vagabond of outlaws, most likely an offshoot branch of the Brotherhood Without Banners. Either way, Sandor knew in his bones that something was amiss.

"Seven save you, friends," Ray greeted. "How can we help you?"

One of them, Lem Lemoncloak, wore a yellow cloak and was a big and brawny man with a bushy brown beard and bad teeth. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, we're talking about life. You?"

"Protecting the people."

"Well, we thank you for your protection. Who are you protecting us from?"

Sandor eyed each of them closely, but recognized one of them: Karrem, a butcher from the Crossroads Inn and the father of the boy he killed years earlier, Myach. Last time they met it was when Sandor fought Beric in a trial by combat and won. Although he was permitted to leave, Karrem never forgave his leader for letting his son's killer walk away and spent the next few years scouring across the Riverlands searching for him. They locked eyes with one another, one however yearned for a fight.

"None of your business, old man," Karrem spat. "Just stay out of our way. The night is dark and full of terrors."

Lem smiled wickedly and turned the horses around with his men as they rode off into the distance. Although Ray and his followers returned to their meals, Sandor, however, never took his eyes off of them. Deep in the pit of his gut, the Hound knew that their presence meant there was trouble afoot.

Whatever the case, Sandor felt his skin itch and flexed his muscles; should they ever return, the Hound will be ready for them; for only he was among Ray's congregation that recognized the four men as a threat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daveth is training Tommen and is proving to be a bit hard on him, don't you think? He and Sansa share an emotional reunion and spend quality time for themselves and their children for their long-awaited anniversary. At the end of the first half, Sansa told her twins a bedtime story and tucked them in. Think Daveth did his best for at least trying to make an impression for his wife upon her return home?
> 
> For the second half we witness the return of Sandor Clegane, the Hound. Although bitterly cynic and resentful that his chance for revenge against his brother has been permanently taken away from him, Brother Ray and his followers at least were willing to take Sandor in to at least try to reform him… that is until a familiar face returned; one who'll no doubt force the Hound to pick up his blade and go on the killing warpath again.
> 
> Next chapter will focus around the Second Siege of Meereen between Daenerys Targaryen and the Slavers Alliance. Stay tuned for more!
> 
> Also, before I move on I'd like to know what your stance is on a potential pairing between Daenerys and Jon Snow being included; now I've got no opinion on it and don't take sides per se, some among you have concerns about it. Please leave a detailed description explaining why you either support or oppose to such a pairing so I could at least try to understand. Not something simple like "I don't like it 'cause it was fan service," but an actual reason why you either like or dislike it.
> 
> Beyond that, what are your thoughts? Let me know.


	123. Second Siege of Meereen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My reign has just begun." --Daenerys Targaryen

**At Meereen…**

* * *

Daenerys flew on Drogon's back watching the besiegement of Meereen already taking place below her. Off the coast, ships belonging to the Slavers Alliance armada consisting of both the reconquered Astapor and Yunkai were bombarding the city with their trebuchets; volleys of flaming projectiles soared over the beach and into the city. Daenerys watched from above in anger at the sight of terrified civilians running for their lives.

***WHOOSH!***

***BOOM!***

"Ilagon. (Descend)," she tells her dragon.

Drogon screeches and flies downward onto the roof of the Great Pyramid, allowing Daenerys to dismount safely as the beast hid behind one of the nearby pyramids—waiting for its prey to come to it. On the ground, many Unsullied and Golden Company mercenaries were evacuating the citizenry as the Second Sons scrambled with the Meereenese City Guard. Connington was among the first to see Daenerys right away.

"About time you came back, child," he exclaimed. "The Great Masters have already begun laying siege to the city, all while our men—"

Daenerys held her hand up. "Now is not the time to argue, Lord Connington," she replied unfazed. She is not the same woman who flew away from Daznak's Pit on the back of a dragon.

***BOOM!***

"Meereen is strong. The city's primary rebirth has been the cause of the violence we've all witnessed even before the heroic revolutionary Saqnizza Dhardu led the revolt against the Masters—"

***BOOM!***

It was a close one, though neither Connington nor Daenerys flinched. Connington watches how the Dragon Queen carries herself and looks at him, regarding her as someone who's coming into her own.

"We cannot let the Masters win because they know Meereen is thriving on its own, economically and politically. If Meereen succeeds as a city without slavery, without Masters—"

***BOOM!***

"—then it proves no one needs a Master. Shall we begin?"

Connington raised an eyebrow, his curiosity peaked. "You have a plan in mind?" he pressed.

Daenerys nodded. "I will crucify the Masters. I will set their fleet afire, kill every last one of their soldiers and return their cities to the dirt. Well, that's what I'd normally say had I not had more time to think about the kind of ruler I want to be; to not be like the kind of ruler my father was once."

***BOOM!***

"So I suggest we take an alternative approach. But what happens next depends on you, Lord Connington. Come. It's time we take the fight to them."

***BOOM!***

A blast from one of the flaming projectiles hit the balcony and explodes inward, sending shards of wood flying everywhere. Outside, smoke and fire and debris flies in through the window. Connington, Grey Worm, Daario, Jorah and an assembly of Unsullied accompanied Daenerys to an elevated plateau outside of the city with good views of both Slavers Bay and the Meereenese skyline. They stand across from the three Masters, Yeezan zo Qaggaz, Razdal mo Eraz and Belicho Paenymion accompanied with a dozen of bodyguards.

Razdal smiles. "Once before I offered you peace. If you had not been so arrogant, you could have returned to your homeland with a fleet of ships. Instead you will flee Slavers Bay on foot like the Beggar Queen you are."

Connington scoffed. "We're here to discuss terms of surrender, not trade insults – no matter how amusing it sounds."

"The terms are simple," Yezzan stated, arms crossed. "You and your foreign friends will abandon the Great Pyramid and the city of Meereen. The Unsullied you stole from Kraznys mo Nakloz will remain to be sold again to the highest bidder." He glances at Missandei. "The translator you stole from Kraznys mo Nakloz will remain to be sold again to the highest bidder. The dragons beneath the Great Pyramid will be slaughtered."

_'Arrogant fool,'_  Connington thought smugly.  _'They still cannot comprehend the magnitude of their situation. But they'll learn soon enough. One way or another, they will learn.'_

Grey Worm and Missandei both watche Yezzan, emotionless.

"I fear you're all mistaken," Daenerys replied confidently. "We obviously did not communicate clearly enough. We are here to discuss  _your_  surrender, not mine."

The slave masters exchange glances and laugh. Oh, how they laugh!

"I imagine it's difficult, adjusting to the new reality," Razdal pointed out. "Your reign is  _over_."

"On the contrary. My reign has just begun." Without beating an eyelash or breaking eye contact, she utters a word. "Māzigon naejot nyke, Drōgon. (Come to me, Drogon.)"

"*RRAAAAAAAAAAAARRH!*"

Yezzan notices something in the distance, a black dot in the sky that grows larger and larger. Soon all the envoys and their bodyguards see it: Daenerys never turns to look at the approaching Drogon, who flies up over the plateau and lands on an overlooking structure. Daenerys allows the faintest hint of a smile to form across her face, a smile that says: 'This game is only just beginning. I've got you in my clutches now, but this time there is no escape… for any of you.'

The beast roars loudly across the sky and drops down beside Daenerys, who climbs on his back without hesitation like she was born to ride dragons and they fly off over Meereen, displaying the Dragon Queen's control of the greatest war machine the known world has ever seen. The Masters' bodyguards shrink in fear and terror.

"*SKREEE!*"

"*WOORAAAH!*"

When they pass over the entrance to the catacombs, Rhaegal and Viserion swoop down from above and joins them—spitting fire from their mouths upon hearing their brother's calls; all three dragons look a lot healthier than ever before. The ensemble flies over the beach entrance to Meereen, overpassing Daznak's Pit, other landmarks of Meereen and towards the Great Pyramid.

**—Outside the city—**

On the outskirts of Meereen, a group of the Sons of the Harpy are slaughtering citizens of Meereen. Galloping footsteps can be heard in the distance. One of the Sons of the Harpy turns to look in the direction of the sound. The 100,000 Dothraki horde led by Qhono rounds the bend of a nearby cliff, yelling war cries and charging full force towards the Sons of the Harpy on horseback.

With one swing of his arakh, Qhono beheads a Son of the Harpy. Despite being vastly outnumbered, the Sons of the Harpy tried putting up a fierce resistance—but to no avail as the Dothraki slaughtered and plundered.

Inside, the Golden Company war elephants and cavalry were easily able to rout any remaining Sons of the Harpy within Meereen. Captain Strickland removed his helm and stared at the sky, watching the three dragons flying ever closer to the Slaver Alliance armada.

"Incredible…" he said in awe.

**—By the edge of Slavers Bay—**

Daenerys and all three of her dragons fly over the Masters' ships. The mercenary soldiers and sailors on the ships stop what they were doing and stare up at her fearfully. Three large, full-grown dragons circle in the sky above them; too late, they realize what horrible career choices they have made.

" _Dracarys_. (Dragonfire)," she orders.

Inhaling deep, Drogon breathes fire upon the warship. Rhaegal and Viserion follow suit. It's an awe-inspiring sight: three columns of flame, thick as tree trunks reducing ship and crew alike to ash in a matter of seconds. Engulfed in flames, the soldiers and sailors scream as they die while the ship incinerates and capsizes.

The rest of the slavers fleet gets the message loud and clear. Each sailor abandons ship en masse, jumping into the ocean and swimming for safety wherever they can find it. Weighed down by their armor and weapons, many of them drown to a cold, dark, watery grave.

**—Back on the plateau—**

The Unsullied on the plateau shift their spears to attack mode in one synchronized fashion. Their commander, Grey Worm, calmly approaches them. "Ao vali emagon iā iderennon. (You men have a choice)," he tells them. "Vīlībagon se morghūljagon syt āeksia qilōni would dōrī vīlībagon se morghūljagon syt ao. Iā jikagon lenton, naejot aōha lentor. (Fight and die for Masters who would never fight and die for you. Or go home, to your families.)"

With the sound of dragons screeching in the distance, the Masters' mercenary bodyguards glance at each other and immediately throw down their arms before running away without hesitation. The three Masters Yeezan, Razdal and Belicho stood their abandoned facing the Unsullied and the Targaryen generals.

"Now that we have your complete and undivided attention, allow me to make this crystal clear for you three," Connington approached with his arms tucked behind his back. "Your guards have abandoned you; every Son of the Harpy you clandestinely dispatched has been utterly wiped out never to be seen or heard from again, and to top it all off… every single ship in your armada now belongs to us. Queen Daenerys Stormborn will see to it that they are properly suited for her quest to retake the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. But even though our Queen tends to have a… forgiving nature, this unprovoked act of aggression  _cannot_  and  _will not_  be forgiven."

The Masters have not quite processed their new reality yet; they look between Jon Connington and the Unsullied infantrymen, pointing their spearheads right at their hearts.

"Our Queen insists that one of you must die," Missandei agrees, "as punishment for your crimes."

"It always seems abstract, doesn't it, hmm? Other people dying?"

Razdal instantly grabs Yezzan. "Him! He should die!" he shoves him forward.

Belicho nodded. "Yes, yes, him!"

Yezzan looks at the two of them, stunned and terrified. "My friends— Why?"

"He's not one of us!" Razdal continued ranting. "He's an outsider, a lowborn! He does not speak for us!"

Connington glances back at Grey Worm and nods at him; Grey Worm approaches and stares Yezzan in his eyes.

"Please," the slave master falls to his knees begging for mercy. "Please, please—"

Grey Worm unsheathes his dagger; before anyone could blink, the Unsullied leader swiftly slices both Razdal and Belicho's throats with a single move—instantly killing them both in less than five seconds with such an impressive feat. The two Masters fall to the ground, dying, clutching their opened throats. Once he wipes the blood off his blade, Grey Worm sheathes his dagger and takes a step back. As Yezzan gasps, almost in a state of shock, Connington steps towards Yezzan and grips his shoulder tightly.

"Let this be a reminder of what happens when you declare war upon us," he said through gritted teeth, his voice dripping with menace. "Go. Tell every single slave owner everything that happened here. Tell them you live by the grace of Her Majesty because she  _chose_  to spare your worthless life. If they even think about any foolish notions of retribution or any ideas about returning the slave cities to their former glory, remind them what happened when Queen Daenerys Stormborn of the House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, Breaker of Chains and Mother of Dragons came to Meereen with her armies and all three of her dragons."

***BAM!***

Before parting, Connington punched Yezzan across the face—rendering the Master unconscious. He, Grey Worm, Missandei, Daario and Jorah soon walk away to return to the market center. They stop moving as soon as they see Drogon flying low to land; the dragon shifted its body and lowered its left side down a bit to allow Daenerys to climb off.

"Congratulations on your victory, khaleesi," Missandei said warmly.

"Indeed," Daario noted. "Now you've got a fleet and enough men to carry your armies across the Narrow Sea."

Daenerys looked out at Slavers Bay, admiring the sunset beginning to glistening specks of light off the surface of the water. Closing her eyes, she inhaled through her nostrils and out the mouth; finally, Daenerys had acquired an army—Dothraki, Unsullied and Golden Company mercenaries, three dragons—and now had a fleet big enough for the long voyage to begin her conquest to take back the Iron Throne for House Targaryen. All of her 21 years have been living in exile in Essos, often dreaming of one day returning to her homeland and restoring her family to the throne.

"It's finally over," she sounded almost relieved. "We can finally begin what we set out to do."

Connington stood beside her. "Captain Strickland will have his men prep the ships ready for the long voyage. However, their elephants will have to remain here… in the Bay of Dragons. They're excellent beasts. Useful, but not well-suited to long sea voyages."

"They say the Dothraki do not cross an ocean; they believed the world ends there."

"But they will for you."

"That they will. How long will it take for us to reach Westeros from here?"

"Given the size of our forces, it'll take time to teach the Dothraki and Unsullied how to sail properly. They'll need training. In hindsight, it would take several months to cross the Narrow Sea from here to get to Westeros."

Daenerys pondered her next move carefully. "Then we'll need to find someone who knows anything about sailing before begin. And there's also the affair of establishing a provisional government in Meereen so the people can rule themselves." She turns to Jorah. "But there is also you. I banished you, yet you came back. And you saved my life. So I can't take you back and I can't send you away."

When she approaches Jorah, he recoils and backs away—still clutching his wrist.

"But you must send me away… for good this time," he says before rolling up his sleeve to reveal the greyscale covering his left forearm.

Daenerys looks at the infection with shock. "Is there a cure?" she asks.

Jorah shook his head. "I don't know," he answers despondently.

"How long does it take?"

"I don't know that either. Both Connington and I got hit with it, though he cut his fingers off before it could spread."

She turns to her senior advisor. "You as well? You healed yourself, but yet you didn't—"

"Khaleesi, please," Jorah interrupted. "I've seen what happens when it goes far enough. I don't blame Connington for doing what he thought was right. After what I did, I… I felt this was punishment. I'll end things before that."

Daenerys begins to cry. "I… I didn't know. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Connington crossed his arms at the sight of the Dragon Queen expressing genuine remorse for the man who wronged her in somewhat disbelief; yet still, he silently kept his disapprovals to himself. Jorah shook his head again.

"Don't be," he said reassuringly. "All I've ever wanted was to serve you. I love you. I'll always love you. Goodbye, Khaleesi."

"Do not walk away from your Queen, Jorah the Andal!" she shouted after him.

_'Foolish girl, don't touch him,'_  Connington thought in disapproval.  _'Touch a man infected with greyscale then the disease will be transmitted to you. And all your goals and ambitions will be for naught.'_

"You have not been dismissed," she continued. "You pledged yourself to me. You swore to obey my commands for the rest of your life. Well, I command you to find the cure wherever it is in this world. I command you to heal yourself and then return to me. When I take the Seven Kingdoms… I need you by my side."

Jorah looks at Daenerys in amazement; nodding his head, the former Lord of Bear Island turns to be escorted out of Meereen and take the first ship out of the city-state to wherever it is so he could find a cure for his condition—though he took one more glance behind him before starting off into the wilderness. Connington watched Jorah's departure and felt his left hand twitch; the missing fingers on his hand felt as if they were still there even if they were no longer. He huffed before noticing a cloaked individual approaching.

"Unsullied," he called out.

Grey Worm spun around as did his men, shields up and spears aimed. The intruder stopped and cautiously waved her hands up. Daenerys dried her eyes and turned to them.

"I couldn't help but overhear you needed some assistance with instructing your men how to sail properly," the guest said in a rough feminine voice.

"Who are you?" Grey Worm demanded.

The individual removed the cloak, revealing herself to be Yara Greyjoy. "I'm Yara. Princess Yara of House Greyjoy," she introduced herself, "eldest surviving child of Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands."

* * *

**In Braavos…**

* * *

Rushing through the streets and marketplace of Braavos, Arya was on the run. Exhausted and wounded, she had knowingly made herself a target when she refused to assassinate actress Lady Crane via poison. Being hunted by the Waif, Arya reflected on her brief banter with Lady Crane.

_"You wouldn't be safe,"_ she told her. _"Not while she's looking for me."_

_"Who?"_  Crane asked.

_"She doesn't have a name."_

_"Where will you go?"_

_"Essos is east and Westeros is west. But what's west of Westeros?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Nobody does. That's where all the maps stop."_

_"The edge of the world, maybe."_

_"I'd like to see that."_

Slowly getting back on her feet, Arya is still afflicted with pain from her stomach where the Waif repeatedly stabbed her. She remains fortunate to fight back and escape; otherwise the Faceless Man assassin would've finished her off. All she had to do now was quickly make it to her hideout before the Waif catches her. Before taking another step forward, Arya spots a trail of blood in an abutting room.

"Lady Crane?" she calls out. "Lady Crane?" she repeats a bit louder.

"If you'd have done your job, she would have died painlessly."

Arya jumped and turned to see the Waif standing in the doorway with a knife. As the Waif slowly approaches with a creepy smile on her face, Arya matches her pace whilst backing away.

"Instead," the Waif continues, "the Many-Faced God was promised a name. He must always receive what is His. You can't change that. I can't change that. No one can. And now He's been promised another name."

Arya turned and ran, leaping out the window onto the streets below before sprinting off. The Waif gives chase, proving herself to be the more agile and precise in her movements—a trained killer zeroing in on a chosen target. Fruits and baskets were knocked over during the pursuit; Arya grunted and held her side painfully as she felt her stitches had reopened. Knowing she would be unable to outrun the Waif, who is closing in on her, Arya barely manages to stay ahead and rolls down a broad flight of stairs which overturned several more baskets of vegetables in the process.

"Ngh!" she hissed through her teeth. "Come on, Arya. Get up. Get up! GET UP!"

Quickly getting back on her feet, Arya flees into an alleyway knowing her hideaway was nearby. Figuring that enough was enough, that she would make a final stand, Arya pressed her left hand against her wound and smeared it against the side of the building, leaving a bloody trail to a doorway. At last, Arya enters a small, dark room lit by a single candle and retrieves Needle from underneath her bedsheet on time as the Waif followed her and shut the door behind her.

"It will all be over soon," she tells Arya. "On your knees or on your feet?"

Arya brandishes Needle and stands her ground.

"Haven't we been through this already? That won't help you."

"You think so? Come try me then."

She didn't need to be told twice. The Waif advances on her target; deciding to utilize the full extent of her Water Dance training, Arya holds Needle up in front of her face, closes her eyes and chops the wax candle in half with one quick slice—plunging the room in total darkness. Steel clashed, shouts hurled before flesh was pierced and silence loomed over the area.

**—At the House of Black and White—**

The leading Faceless Man Jaqen H'dgar tends to the main hall. Whilst examining the Hall of Faces, he notices a blood trail on the floor leading to one of the columns bearing the faces. To his amazement, Jaqen notices the Waif's bloody face resting in one of the sconces with her eyes gouged out before feeling something sharp poking him in the back. Jaqen turns around to see a furious Arya glaring at him, armed with Needle. Huffing and puffing angrily, she had had enough and confronted her estranged mentor.

"You sent her after me. You told her to kill me. Didn't you?" Arya pressed.

Jaqen remained calm and composed. "Yes, but here you are. And there she is," he replied, his voice uneven. In his eyes, she passed the test to join the Faceless Men before pushing his chest closer against Needle's point. "Finally a girl is no one."

_'No. That's it, I'm done. I'm not playing another one of your games, Jaqen; not again. Not after everything you put me through. I am a wolf and will not be afraid,'_  she spat. "No. A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell… and  _I'm_  going home."

Jaqen responds with a nod and a barely perceptible smile. Reassuring her identity and having learned all she needed to know, Arya turns and makes the ultimate decision to leave the House of Black and White and all of Braavos for good. She was now determined to return to Westeros, her home.

"At least the Faceless Men were good for at least something. Swift as a deer; quiet as a shadow; fear cuts deeper than swords," Arya evaluates herself with a smile on her face before stepping foot on a merchant vessel bound for White Harbor. "The world we live in doesn't just let girls decide what they want to be… But I can now. So long as even a single wolf remains alive, the sheep are never safe. Now, I'm going to defend my family."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I had a bit of head start working on this chapter last night and have finished this morning. The Second Siege of Meereen was brought to a swift conclusion; and although Daenerys acquired her ships, it'll take time to teach the Dothraki and Unsullied to sail them properly—but that is only until she settles things in Meereen first and the Dragon Queen meeting Yara Greyjoy for the first time. Think this'll be a somewhat beneficial alliance, knowing that Yara wants something in return? Find out next time.
> 
> Arya Stark completes her training with the Faceless Man, then straight up rage quits and is on her way back home to Winterfell. Think she'll still play a large role in the Great War? Let me know.


	124. Affirmative Action, a Call to Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daveth makes history and issues a call to arms once more.

**In King's Landing…**

* * *

Lord Tyrion stood in the Small Council chambers engaged in conversation with a Faith of the Seven clergyman – sent to Red Keep as an envoy on behalf of the Most Devout themselves. Since the revelation of Septa Unella's involvement in the Sparrow movement and being the High Sparrow's benefactor, the disgraced Unella was stripped of her position on the Faith's ruling council, excommunicated and banished from Westeros—never setting foot in the country ever again. The dwarf Hand of the King sipped his wine as the clergyman continued rattling; all while the other members of the Small Council—Varys, Pycelle, Mace, Randyll, Barristan and Trystane—simply listened.

"It simply cannot be done, my Lord Hand. The clerics are still sequestered in the consensus. By holy law if no one steps forward, then the Faith will remain leaderless and will slowly crumble. Surely the King must—" the old man sputtered before being interrupted.

"I understand your concern, we all do. But what you're asking me is something that my nephew will have to decide," Tyrion replied honestly. "Even I can't make his choices for him without his knowledge or his consent considering recent events."

"He  _must_  consider a particular candidate."

The doors were pushed open, allowing Daveth, Sansa and their children to step inside. Apparently they were strolling through the halls of the Red Keep until they heard a certain commotion emanating from inside so they chose to investigate. Tyrion and the clergyman all turned and bowed their heads in acknowledgment.

"Ah. Beloved nephew," Tyrion greeted in his humorous fashion.

Daveth rolled his eyes. "Uncle," he dryly replied.

"Ah, Your Graces. Perfect timing," the clergyman redirected his attention. "The Faith humbly inquires your opinion on—"

Mace looked up at him. "Don't you think your being a bit pushy lately?"

"What's going on here?" Sansa inquired, holding her twins' hands.

Trystane explained. "It would appear that the Most Devout simply cannot agree on a candidate to be the next High Septon. They've been arguing from dawn 'til dusk non-stop. Ever since the last one was publicly shamed and removed from office, the vacancy has caused quite a bit of a stir in the Faith's leadership."

The clergyman interjected once more. "Which is why we've made numerous requests asking for your opinion on a possible choice to fill the position of High Septon; to break the deadlock," he insisted.

"Deadlock? Are things still that bad?" the Wolf Queen asked.

Tyrion regretfully nodded. "It would appear so," his tone switched to a more positive outlook.

The Young Stag raised an eyebrow. "Then why come to me?" he pressed.

"Because of what happened with the High Sparrow and how the matter was settled, the Faith of the Seven favors you, nephew," he explained, "and thus everyone close to you. As such, they've left the decision of naming a new High Septon entirely up to you… though they didn't have the decency to even ask first."

"I'm not a Septon."

"Neither of us is," Varys chimed in, "but an endorsement from whoever sits on the Iron Throne would be seen as a public show of support; that the Crown still upholds the needs of those who need it more than oneself."

Daveth sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine, I'll swing by the Great Sept of Baelor and see if we can get this mess sorted out before it leads to more trouble. In the meantime, my lords, if there are any other matters of state affairs of great importance then you are to notify me without delay."

"Understood, Your Grace."

**—En route to the Great Sept of Baelor—**

Daveth and Sansa rode through the streets to the Great Sept of Baelor; because the Queen was now four months into her pregnancy, she sat in the royal carriage with her children while Daveth rode up front accompanied by two Kingsguards, Brienne and Lucius. The smallfolk occasionally glanced at the troupe before returning to their employment or household tasks. The Young Stag glanced at a nearby hill.

_'That's where the High Sparrow made his last stand,'_  he reminisced. "Halt."

The carriage came to a stop upon arriving at their destination. Daveth dismounted from his horse and looked on as Brienne and Lucius helped escort Sansa down the small steps of the royal carriage; young Lyonel and Cassana eagerly jumped out and proceeded to chase each other around the carriage. Sansa saw this and tried to rein them in, but her hormones occasionally caused her to have random mood swings, going from sweet and motherly to stern and strict. After all, she was dealing with a pair of two hyperactive, 2-year-old twins and is expecting her third child in another five months.

"Lyonel, Cassana," their mother called out as she chased them. "Don't run around the carriage. It's not safe. Cassana, get your brother. No, Lyonel, sto— DON'T RUN!"

She was done and was not in the mood for games; when Lyonel and Cassana heard their mother's shouting they immediately stopped playing and meekly obeyed. Sansa took a moment to calm down and regain her composure so as to resume her capability of parenting.

"Please, my little ones. You can play once we're back at the Red Keep, but not here," she told them. "Mommy and daddy want you two to be on your best behavior today. Okay?"

"Sowwy, mommy," they apologized.

Sansa accepted their apology and took them by the hands to accompany their father; Daveth felt his own headache slowly subside as his son and daughter were reigned back in. They were much more behaved this time. Knowing that all was well enough, Daveth and Sansa soon stepped forth into the Great Sept. Much had changed since then, yet somehow remained the same as well.

"Selecting a candidate to be the Seven Gods' voice on earth – even if it means picking someone outside the hierarchy," Brienne spoke softly. "The selection process sounds maddening."

"You'd think so but it's not without precedent," Daveth mentioned. "Pate was a stonemason, and another was an 8-year-old boy. Priests, non-priests… truly, though, if the Faith's trust or at least tolerance in a sovereign is high enough, I imagine they'll accept whoever the King recommends. Still… I still don't get why my word would simply make things better."

Near the steps, members of the Most Devout—Tobert, Raynard, Luceon, Russal, Moelle, Rosyn and Helicent approached them. Their newest member to fill the vacancy on their council, Laina, curtsied before them.

"Your Graces," Tobert greeted.

"It is good to see you both at the Great Sept once more. Seems like it was yesterday when you to were wed here," Rosyn concurred. "I things have been going well? Prince Lyonel and Princess Cassana are still good angels?"

_'Please if only you'd know what it's like dealing with two little runts who drive you crazy at times,'_  the Young Stag thought. "Our son and daughter are doing well, thank you for asking. Regardless, it has come to our attention that there has been some difficulty in nominating a new High Septon?"

Raynard nodded. "Yes, as I'm sure Septon Tavion has said already. We of the Most Devout have voted, voiced our opinions… but still neither of us can come to an agreement."

"How many votes have been cast?"

"Well let's see…" Moelle pulled out a parchment scroll. "Septon Luceon leads with 96 votes, followed closely by Septon Raynard with 86 votes. Septon Javer has 73, Septon Patrack 32, Septon Auster 10, and Septon Efran 3. The majority votes need to secure the appointment set by the Most Devout is 300. So far, no one has reached the milestone and therefore we remain at an impasse."

_'Then perhaps it needs to change; just not in a way that holds us back, limits our potential or stunts our growth.'_

Sansa chimed in. "This cannot be what the Faith intended when it all began, no?"

Rosyn shook her head. "No I'm afraid not, but once our brothers and sisters withdraw for the consensus, it is against holy law for us to emerge without naming a new High Septon. But we aren't blind to the unfortunate truth. Normally it should take us days or weeks, sometimes even months—but the problem we're facing now is no clear worthy successor exists. Theoretically, we'll argue until exhaustion takes us or we see reason. Practically, however, if the consensus goes on too long the Faith will crumble."

"And any clergyman with ambition but little sense will see this as their one chance, and plenty of these selfish men exist," added Helicent.

"Henceforth, because you've been the first King since Baelor the Blessed to contribute to the Faith of the Seven we feel it would be best if you were to make a selection," suggested Luceon.

Daveth folded his arms and cupped his chin in his fist, occasionally feeling his stubble on his face scratching against his fingertips. So many decisions during his reign, and so many more to follow suite… Now although he follows the Faith of the Seven religion, he wasn't particularly a religious person—let alone a devout one. Religion has its place in society, but it did not govern his life.

_'No worthy successor exists, does it? Then you haven't looked hard enough,'_  Daveth thought. "Then therein lies the problem," he said aloud.

The Most Devout looked confused. "Your Grace?" they implored.

He turned to look at them. "The gridlock, politicking… Such notions allowed elements like the High Sparrow to rise up and attempt to seize power. Perhaps that's how it started. Such corrupt self-serving men who puts himself ahead of his flock is no shepherd at all. Perhaps we've simply forgotten and lost our way."

Sansa listened closely and chimed in as well. "The Father sits in judgment of us all; we pray to the Crone for wisdom and guidance. When the former High Septon disgraced his office, when the High Sparrow sought to twist and perverse the Faith's tenants to suit his own ambitions, it only goes to show that such men are more valuable to anger or passion. But in truth such restrictions are simply political that allowed our customs to grow corrupt and Faith's practice little more than a façade. For centuries the institution was pulled in every direction by those who would steer its course."

"Which is why Westeros will require change… starting from the top and build on that. The Faith will need someone to lead its devout flock to a new, brighter future—and show them that no matter who we are or where we came from, we are the same," Daveth reminded them. "A new High Septon should encourage the good in us all despite our shortcomings. Should we stumble or stray, the Faith will need a gentle hand to show the way by example."

"Take a lot at me for instance, Your Reverences. I am a Stark, a Northern family which worships the Old Gods. My mother is a Tully by birth who firmly believes in the New Gods, yet Septa Mordane taught me and my brothers and sister to understand both sides and seek balance between them—not exclude them or look down upon as 'uncivilized savages.' The new Faith of the Seven should serve as a beacon of hope for all its people, not just a select few. To be a force for good, instead of what it is. No one is without worth."

"If we allow the wheel to preserve things in motion the way it is now, then no true progress will ever be made. It'll just be more of the same—a cycle that will see no end unless we make it."

The Most Devout began murmuring among themselves; mostly in confusion and at a loss. Daveth and Sansa stood side by side as if hoping their message got across to them. After some topic, they redirected their attention back to the King and Queen.

"Then… do you have a… candidate in mind? To break the deadlock?" asked Raynard.

Daveth nodded. "We do," he answered and turned to one in particular. "The Crown supports Septa Rosyn as a candidate to lead the Faith of the Seven."

Rosyn's eyes widened and her mouth dipped in surprise; the other Most Devout gasped in shock. Primarily the position of High Septon was usually reserved for male priests, but at the same time there has also never been any mention of a formal rule against electing a female priest heading the Faith of the Seven before. To the older conservative men, this act appeared to be rather unprecedented and a big aggressive.

"Wha… Y-Your Grace," Tobert sputtered. "Her? This is… I must protest on the notion that—"

Sansa remained composed, as if she somehow she knew this was the reaction they'd been expecting. "I believe that is the exact notion of what my royal husband used to describe it," she explained. "Men's hearts and emotions leads them astray, becoming cold-hearted individuals; unkind, uncaring and selfish; impulsive and emotional. What the people need is a gentle hand and a kind, loving heart to temper their nature and reassure them that despite the terrors we've all faced in our lives, we should reassure them that everything is going to be all right and to not lose sight of what's important in life. We believe Septa Rosyn has the qualities needed to lead the Faith in a new direction, to make it better than it was before."

Daveth looked at his wife and listened to her words; hinting that Sansa was referring to his own impulsive emotional outbursts he himself could hardly control due to past trauma and frustrations he's been forced to endure. Sansa and Septa Rosyn were two of the select few who knew him well enough to look beyond the surface and determine the source to steer him back on the correct path; to help pick Daveth up to his feet, dust off his shoulders and encourage him to keep going on—but not alone.

"G-give us a moment," Luceon stuttered.

Daveth, Sansa, their children and bodyguards soon left the Great Sept of Baelor behind them and moved to return to the Red Keep to await further news. The Young Stag couldn't help but feel a triumph swelling in the corner of his mind, encouraged by the push the Wolf Queen started. No doubt this endorsement and recommendations would send a ripple effect throughout the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros, but what else hasn't happened that already occurred whenever both made a move?

**—Six hours later—**

Daveth and Sansa waited patiently in the throne room, though it wasn't long before they received an unexpected guest. Donning a long clean white-grey robe, a golden vest etched with crystals around her shoulders with the silver Seven Pointed Star wrapped around her neck, Rosyn was presented before the King and Queen. Humble and regal, her appearance had changed quite significantly—indicating Roslyn had been elevated.

"Congratulations on your elevation, High Septa," Sansa greeted.

Rosyn smiled warmly. "It still feels strange," she admitted. "I have been many things — healer, tutor, Septa — and always because someone needed something from me. But I realize now that I am all of these things, and yet, not defined by any one. I am now Her Holiness the High Septa, Mother of the Faithful and Voice of the Seven on Earth." She turned to Daveth. "But to those I helped educate, raise and nurse – to you, Oathkeeper – I will always be just Rosyn."

Daveth smiled. "So long as I still get to call you that in private, right?" he asked.

"So long as we're in private," she affirmed. "Remember, it's forbidden to refer to us—living or dead—as anything other than the office we hold."

"I understand… Rosyn. Just be careful out there. I might've named you High Septa, but there'll no doubt be those who'll disagree with you."

"Don't worry. I have a plan for the Faith, and I will not rest until the proper course is cleared for all. I may need your counsel in the coming days if not just your company."

"Of course. Will the Most Devout have an issue with you?"

"At some point, I suppose. They'd  _love_  to bury me in ceremony while they prepare for my coronation. There's still much to be done. Once that's done, I'll return to the Great Sept of Baelor for good. The faithful will be properly tended to like an herbalist tending to their garden, a farmer to his field and a healer to the sickly."

"Should you need aid," Sansa approached, "the Crown will answer."

"I appreciate that, Your Grace," Rosyn placed her hand on the Queen's four-month pregnant belly. "And I look forward to blessing yet another Baratheon. May the Seven watch over you both."

"Seven blessings to you, Your Holiness," they returned the gesture.

Rosyn, the first woman to be appointed leader of the Faith of the Seven, curtsied and exited the Red Keep back to the Great Sept of Baelor. Sansa believed there would be interesting times ahead of the Seven Kingdoms; whether for good or ill, she and Daveth will stand against the tide and will always be ready to face whatever life had to throw at them.

**—Later that day—**

Daveth and Sansa remained in the Small Council chambers; occasionally reading through reports and presiding over meetings, the day seemed to go by in a matter of moments for them as hours passed. Randyll introduced a motion to further improve the Royal Fleet's armada and the country's defenses; Mace offered to fund such an endeavor with House Tyrell's gold, though Tyrion offered a compromise along the lines of…

"I once brought a honeycomb and a jackass into a brothel—" the Imp joked.

"Oh please, not this story again," Daveth groaned.

Sansa frowned. "My Lord Hand, may I remind you that there are children in the room?  _Our_  children? Your grandnephew and grandniece?" she firmly reminded.

"Yeesh, sorry Your Graces." Tyrion raised his hands. "A bad joke; just trying to lighten the mood."

"*Ahem!*" Trystane cleared his throat. "The City Watch has reported that ever since the High Sparrow and his heretical movement were dispersed nearly a month ago, crime has gone down by 46 percent. Commander Duran mentions that there's been an increase of smallfolk volunteers arriving at the barracks. I believe the words he used were 'they want to do their part.'"

Daveth hummed. "Hmm. Of course he'd use colorful words to describe new recruits. What else do we have?"

"My little birds report suspicious activities brewing off the western cost in Ironman's Bay," Varys chimed in. "When they got closer, whoever was there just mysteriously vanished."

"Ironman's Bay…? Near the Iron Islands? How can that be? There's nothing left there."

"No, but they mentioned seeing ships sailing off into thick heavy fog."

"Were they flying a sigil?"

Varys nodded carefully. "I believe so, Your Grace. But I fear it might trigger awful memories on your part."

"Tell me, Varys," he insisted. "What was the description of the unknown ship's sigil?"

The Master of Whisperers and Hand of the King both exchanged concerned looks, though they were rather subtle about it. Tyrion in particular had his suspicions about his nephew's state of mind when informed of the news.

"My birds tell me the sails were all black; attached to the mast and yard, the center of the main sail was a depiction of a silver kraken with a third red eye inscribed onto its head."

Daveth's eyes dilated and contracted slightly; rapidly movement as his entire body went stiff. Although not wide, his eyes shifted from the walls with a fleeting look, to his wife sitting at his left, his uncle sitting at his right, then downwards to his palms due to the natural adrenaline response his body left off. Sansa, Varys, Tyrion and Barristan looked concerned at him. What they detected in his eyes was not that of anger or rage, but fear and anxiety.

_'No. No, not him…'_  the Young Stag thought. "Euron Greyjoy…" he stated quietly under his breath. Daveth noticed how uncomfortable he felt and did his best to shake the thoughts of his old nemesis and tormentor from his mind. "What else do we have?" he changed the subject trying to keep his composure.

"More whispers from the east," Varys reported. "Daenerys Targaryen and her armies have decimated the Slavers Alliance and procured a fleet of her own."

"How many troops does she have in her arsenal?"

"8,000 Unsullied infantry, 100,000 Dothraki cavalry, 20,000 mercenaries from the Golden Company and three dragons."

Randyll scowled. "A bunch of foreign invaders and one with no ties to Westeros with an army of savages at her back," he spat.

_'Even still, if the reports are correct, then the Targaryens hold the largest army we've ever seen to date,'_  Daveth thought. "How long before they arrive?" his tone switched to serious.

"About the end of the year," Varys answered.

"Meaning we'll have six months to prepare. We all knew that conflict with the Targaryens was inevitable. So now we must get ready," Daveth turned to Pycelle. "Grand Maester, dispatch every raven we have in the rookery."

"Oh, uh, a-all of them, Your Grace?" he asked.

"All of them," he confirmed. "Trystane, gather the lords and ladies of the court. Have them brought to the throne room. There is to be a royal announcement."

While Pycelle stood up and hurriedly left to the rookery and Trystane moved to call for a special session of the court, Daveth had already handed Tyrion and Mace their assigned messages as Wardens of the West and South respectively. Both unrolled their parchments and began reading it.

* * *

**At Winterfell…**

* * *

Robb Stark and Jon Snow were busy engaging in talks with how to discuss the inevitable war with the Night King and his undead armies. Discussions were traded back and forth until Maester Luwin arrived in the Great Hall.

"A raven from the capital, Lord Stark," he told Robb.

The Young Wolf took the paper and broke the seal, unrolled it and read what the message said.

* * *

**At the Eyrie…**

* * *

Robin Arryn was practicing his archery under Lord Royce's tutelage; although he never had much success with the bow as he does with the sword, Yohn encouraged his liege lord to keep practicing—eventually the young Warden of the East will soon learn to hit his mark. Hopeless with a sword, and even after prolonged training he still can't even strike the widest ring on an archery target.

Robin closed one eye and struggled to hold the bowstring stably in his hands. He released, but the arrow landed several feet away into the ground.

A maester soon approached. "My lords," he handed the new Lord Protector of the Vale a message from the capital.

Yohn broke the wax seal and began reading it with Robin leaning over his shoulder.

* * *

**At Casterly Rock…**

* * *

Daveth's maternal great-uncle Ser Kevan had watched his only daughter Janei leave House Lannister's ancestral castle and depart for the Reach. Although tempted to see her off, as Castellan of Casterly Rock in his nephew Tyrion's absence, Kevan was in charge of overseeing the Westerlands—militarily, politically and economically.

But before long, Kevan noticed Maester Creylen approach him with a sealed parchment. When he broke the wax, Kevan carefully examined each enscription.

* * *

**At Highgarden…**

* * *

Ser Loras had returned home with his bride Janei of House Lannister; although he kept up the façade of a perfect gentleman, deep down he was miserable. Not just for his over lack of interest in women and preferring the company of men, but he still bore the scars of his captivity at the hands of the High Sparrow. Now that he was home at Highgarden, the task of ruling the Reach in his father's absence fell on his shoulders.

"Oh eh, pardon me, Ser Loras, but your father sent a raven from the capital," interjected Maester Lomys.

"From my father? Show me the message," he requested.

The maester handed over the letter and Ser Loras broke it. With Janei leaning over his shoulder, the Knight of the Flowers read each word.

* * *

**At Sunspear…**

* * *

Prince Doran remained in his wheel chair with his bodyguard Areo standing over him. Much had changed since the Young Stag arrived in Dorne and brokered a peace treaty with House Martell; his son and heir Trystane remained in King's Landing as Master of Laws and learned of his son's marriage to Princess Myrcella, Daveth's sister. Although he was physically unable to attend the wedding himself, Doran wished his son and new daughter-in-law well wishes, a long happy life and many children.

"My Prince," Maester Caleotte apologized and brings a scroll.

Doran took the paper and broke the seal, reading each word the message entailed.

**—Overall—**

From as far north as Last Hearth to as far south as Sunspear, every raven dispatched from the capital city of King's Landing… all messages sent all read the same:

> _"Wardens of the North, South, East and West,_
> 
> _The time has come to call your banners once more. Again our nation_  
>  _is under threat. Not from insurrectionists, but from across the Narrow_  
>  _Sea. We are at war once more. The Crown has just received word_  
>  _that the Mad King's daughter, Daenerys of House Targaryen, has_  
>  _amassed a large powerful army and plans to sail across the world_  
>  _to invade._
> 
> _I call upon you to answer the call and mobilize your armies in_  
>  _preparation for an immediate response against such a dangerous_  
>  _enemy. Our homes, our future, our way of life… everything we hold_  
>  _dear faces annihilation should the Mad King's daughter succeed in_  
>  _her conquest. Her armies are unlike any this nation has ever seen:_  
>  _mindless Unsullied soldiers who will destroy your castles, Dothraki_  
>  _savages who will pillage and burn your villages to the ground without_  
>  _a second thought, rape and enslave your women, and butcher your_  
>  _children._
> 
> _And like her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, she has three full-grown_  
>  _dragons in her arsenal. Mindless, savage beasts. The embodiment of_  
>  _raw, uncontrollable power._
> 
> _Most of you remember the Mad King. You remember the levels of_  
>  _unspeakable horror and terror he inflicted on his people. His daughter_  
>  _is no different. In Essos, she crucified hundreds of nobles with such_  
>  _brutality, fed them to her dragons and executed them without giving_  
>  _them a fair trial._
> 
> _Now I have no doubt some among you have reservations about_  
>  _fighting such a foe and that's understandable, but this is the hard_  
>  _truth. And hard truth cuts both ways._
> 
> _But the Westeros we know today is not the same Westeros it used_  
>  _to be when Aegon landed on our shores 300 years ago. This is not_  
>  _the War of Conquest. We are not a multitude of separate, individual_  
>  _kingdoms squabbling amongst ourselves – but rather we remain_  
>  _standing as united realm. Some among you fought alongside me_  
>  _on the battlefield during the Stag Sedition and again during the_  
>  _Second Greyjoy Rebellion._
> 
> _As King of the Seven Kingdoms, it is my solemn duty to protect to_  
>  _protect the people against all threats—foreign and domestic, and I_  
>  _will continue to do so. But now more than ever, my lords and ladies,_  
>  _I will need your help. We cannot go back to the way things were_  
>  _before when the Mad King terrorized us all. But rather we must move_  
>  _forward and make the world a better place than our forefathers_  
>  _left it, a future we can establish for our children and their children._
> 
> _As Protector of the Realm, the people of Westeros, nobles and_  
>  _commoners alike, are like family and I will give my life to protect_  
>  _them._
> 
> _Family is not always about blood ties or noble houses, but_  
>  _rather it is a bond between those around you. The ones who want_  
>  _you in their life just as much as you want them in yours. It is that_  
>  _bond no one can ever take away – especially not Daenerys Targaryen._
> 
> _Signed,_
> 
> _Daveth of the House Baratheon, the First of My Name · King of the_  
>  _Andals and the First Men · Lord of the Seven Kingdoms · Protector_  
>  _of the Realm"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new leader of the Faith of the Seven has been chosen and a call to arms has been sent to every corner of Westeros. The stage is set for the epic climax and we're close to the end of Season 6. What are your guys' opinion? Thoughts? Let me know.


	125. Winds of Winter, Fire and Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran becomes the new Three-Eyed Raven; Daenerys and her forces sail to Westeros.

**Beyond the Wall…**

* * *

Bran continues his training, his eyes glazed white as he experienced more visions of the past. Yesterday he learned the origins of the Night King and the White Walkers with the Three-Eyed Raven: the Children of the Forest—Leaf in particular—slowly drove a shard of dragonglass into the heart of a captive First Men bound to the weirwood tree until it disappears inside his chest, causing his eyes to turn blue. When confronted, Leaf defended her people's actions since the Children of the Forest were at war with the First Men thousands of years ago.

Nearby, his direwolf Summer, Hodor, Meera and the Three-Eyed Raven were sleeping. Deciding to explore more visions, to truly understand the past, Bran drags his crippled self over to the roots and takes hold of them. Gasping quietly, Bran's eyes turned white once again and warged into the past once more, although the surroundings were unfamiliar. Covered in a snowy blizzard, Bran turned around and gasped in shock.

"W-what the…?!"

Behind him was the entire Army of the Dead standing in attendance. Bran cautiously approached them and then among their ranks, somewhat bewildered and amazed they haven't noticed his presence yet. On the other side of the army, he finds the Night King and four White Walker lieutenants on horseback. Before he could react, Bran froze when he sees the Night King staring directly at him.

_'He sees me,'_  the young Stark realized.

In near unison, the entire Army of the Dread turned their decaying faces and stared directly on him. Feeling every gaze of the undead staring at him, Bran turns around before turning back again to see the Night King standing behind him. He recoils, but by then it was too late as the Night King grabbed his forearm.

"AAHHH!" he screams in agony.

Awoken into the present and ending his vision, Bran gasps, sweats and pants heavily before quickly releases his grip on the tree root—the sensation on his forearm stung and burned badly. His loud screams alerted Meera, Hodor, Summer, Leaf and the Three-Eyed Raven from their sleep; more Children of the Forest entered the cave at the level of disturbance.

"He saw me!" he shouted. "The Night King saw me! He saw me!"

The Three-Eyed Raven noticed Bran's forearm. "He touched you," he noticed.

Bran pulls back his sleeve, revealing a handprint on his forearm.

"Now he knows where you are. He'll come for you."

"But he can't get in."

"He can now," the old man countered cautiously. "His mark is on you." He turned his attention towards Bran's other companions. "You must leave, all of you."

Meera was the first to act. "Come on, Hodor. Help me with the sledge," she tells him.

"Hodor. Hodor," the large simpleminded servant panicked.

Bran looked up at his mentor. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to," he said apologetically.

The Three-Eyed Raven looked unconcerned at his approaching fate. "The time has come," he said simply.

"The time for what?"

"For you to become me."

"But am I ready?" he asked.

The old man shook his head. "No." Once gaze at Bran and his eyes turned white, forcing Bran's to do the same.

Motionless and flooded with every vision from the past, Bran laid stiff as Meera and Hodor prepared for travel.

"We have to go, Hodor. This cave isn't safe anymore," she calls out. "Eat something that isn't moss. I want an egg. How do you like 'em? Hmm? Boiled? Fried up with some butter?"

"Hodor."

"With a rasher of bacon and some blood sausage, and—" Meera notices the air has quickly become so cold she can see her breath and the temperature suddenly dropping. She looks at Bran and runs to the entrance of the cave.

Leaf and the other Children of the Forest are gathered outside armed with magic projectiles. Across the field, the Night King accompanied by three White Walkers and the entire Army of the Dead are gathered. Sensing that his marking on Bran's right forearm had bypassed the powerful magic keeping his forces out of the cave, the Night King kneels and places his hand on the ground—causing a rift to crack through the ice all across the field and into the Great Weirwood Tree.

"Meera, get Bran and run!" Leaf yelled.

Meera ran back into the cave, retrieving a sword on the way back. Unsheathing his blade, the Night King leads his undead forces towards the cave. Now in the fight of their lives, the remaining Children of the Forest threw magic spheres at their undead enemies.

***BOOM!***

***BOOM!***

***BOOM!***

***BOOM!***

One by one, the spheres explode upon contact—killing some of the wights. With one of the last bombs, Leaf lights a half-circle of flame in front of the entrance of the cave and runs back inside with her people. The Night King, however, was looked unimpressed and approached the flames with his White Walker lieutenants; the flames part to let them pass, then reforms. Since the Army of the Dead cannot pass through, each climbs up the cliffs and climb the crag to the top to look for another way in.

Inside, Bran's eyes remained white and stuck in a vision taking place at Winterfell. He could hear the faintest cries of Meera shaking him.  _"Bran! Bran, wake up!"_

Soon a wight falls through the ceiling and advances on Meera; the female Crannogmen grabs her sword and cuts it down with ease. Another wight falls from above, causing Meera to recoil. Summer lunges forth and tackles it to the ground, tearing the undead apart with its vicious fangs. Leaf looks up to spot a third wight jumping down before getting suspended upside down by its feet. The Child of the Forest beheads it with her knife.

Another wight rushes, but Leaf shoots it with an arrow. More Children of the Forest enter to combat the undead forces swarming the cave and fight a desperate battle to fight them off. One wight kills a Child of the Forest; all while Meera and Hodor continue trying to wake Bran up and escort him out of the cave.

"Bran, we're all going to die! Bran! Bran!" she screams. "We need Hodor. We need Hodor. Warg into Hodor now! Now!"

In the vision, Bran twisted and turned at the faintest sound of Meera's voice. With him, the Three-Eyed Raven nodded.

"Listen to your friend, Brandon," he tells him. "The time has come. Leave me."

Hodor's eyes flash white as more wights enter the cave. One of them kills another Child of the Forest. Meera cuts it down. Another Child of the Forest jumps forward and stabs another wight with a spear. While Hodor stands and walks over to Bran, a White Walker enters. The spear-bearing Child of the Forest lunges at it and stabs it in the chest, but the blow has no effect. The White Walker pushes the spear aside and stabs the Child of the Forest, killing her. Hodor lifts the sledge with Bran atop it. Meera grabs a dragonglass spear and launches it into the White Walker's neck, causing it to shatter and dies. She and Leaf then follow Hodor towards the back entrance.

Behind them, Summer growls and bares its teeth at the wights entering the cave.

"Summer!" Meera shouts. "Come, Summer! We have to go!"

Leaf shoved her forward. "He's buying us time to escape. Now go. Go!" she hollered as they run into the back tunnel.

As tens if not hundreds of wights flood into the cave, Bran's direwolf Summer stays behind to protect its master. Summer attacked the wights and lunged forth; although the animal manages to tackle two or three of them to the ground, the undead easily swarm around the direwolf and repeatedly stab Summer to death.

Elsewhere, Leaf, Meera and Hodor hurry down the back tunnel dragging Bran on the sledge. Still stuck in a vision, he doesn't realize a slew of wights pursuing them. Back in the center of the cave, the Night King enters and slowly approaches the Three-Eyed Raven—ice blade in hand. Confined by the Great Weirwood Tree's roots and unable to move, the last greenseer was resigned to his fate. Raising his weapon, the Night King swiftly swung his blade—carving the Three-Eyed Raven diagonally across the torso.

In Bran's vision, he witnesses his mentor breaking apart and blows away as dust, ashes and rags, leaving him alone.

Running down the back tunnel, Leaf stops running and turns to face the undead army advancing on their position.

"What are you doing?" Meera calls out.

"Go!" Leaf yells.

She brandishes a magic bomb and primes it. The wights overtake her and knock her to the ground, stabbing her repeatedly. Releasing her grip on the weapon, Leaf detonates the bomb, killing herself and the hundreds of wights surrounding her. Hodor reaches the rear door and puts down the sledge so he could ram down the door. More wights appear and begin advancing.

"Hodor, hurry!" Meera shouts in a panic.

Hodor heaves the door open and drags the sledge outside. He drops it down and returns to the door, holding it closed with his body against the wooden frame and grips the handles as tightly as he possibly could. Knowing this was the last time they were going to see him, Meera lifts up the sledge carrying Bran and drags it away. She didn't look back.

"Hold the door!"

In Bran's vision, he stares at young Wylis who stares back at him. When more  _"Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door!"_  shouts echoed throughout the vision, Wylis' eyes turn white and falls to the ground convulsing.

_"Wylis! What's the matter?"_  Old Nan exclaimed horrified, kneeling down beside him.

_"Hold the door!"_  Wylis cried out out in a terrible seizure.  _"Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold the door! Hold door! Hold door! Hold door! Hodor! Hodor! Hodor! Hodor! Hodor!"_

Outside, Hodor continues pressing his full weight against the door as wights begin breaking through. They clutch his clothing and begin tearing at his flesh; no matter how much pain Hodor was in, he did not budge. Hodor kept holding the door shut behind him to give Meera time to escape with the still unconscious Bran—sacrificing his life as the wights tore him apart in their attempt to break out of the cave.

**—Near the Wall—**

Heavy snow is falling. Meera felt stressed out and emotionally drained; she endured and yet lost so much to ensure Bran was taken to see the Three-Eyed Raven. Her brother, Summer, Hodor… All of them died for Bran. Just as all appeared hopeless, they were fortunate enough to be rescued by a mysterious rider who attacked and eliminated the pursuing wights with a sickle and a flaming flail. The stranger unveiled his hood, revealing to be Bran's paternal uncle Benjen Stark; the First Ranger of the Night's Watch had disappeared during a scouting mission. His skin was grey and had blemishes on his face.

Once Bran had awoken, he slowly begins to recognize him. "Uncle Benjen," he said. "The last letter Jon wrote me said you had been lost beyond the Wall."

Benjen looked nonchalant. "I led a ranging party deep into the North to find White Walkers. They found us," he explained. "A White Walker stabbed me in the gut with a sword of ice. Left me there to die. To turn. The Children of the Forest found me and stopped the Walker's magic from taking hold."

"How?"

"The same way they made the Walkers in the first place. You saw it yourself, nephew."

"Dragonglass. A shard of dragonglass plunged into your heart."

Benjen nodded. "You are the Three-Eyed Raven now."

"I didn't have time to learn," he shook his head. "I can't control anything."

"You must learn to control it before the Night King comes. One way or another, he will find his way to the world of men. When he does, you will be there waiting for him. And you will be ready."

With that, Benjen escorted Meera and Bran further south towards a grove with a weirwood heart tree in sight of the Wall. The former First Ranger looked up and stared at his former base of operations, shaking his head regretfully.

"I'm afraid this is where I must leave you," he said.

Meera looked confused. "Why? You're not coming with us?" she asked.

Benjen turned to her. "The Wall is not just ice and stone," he explained. "Ancient spells were carved into its foundations. Strong magic to protect men from what lies beyond. And while it stands, the dead cannot pass. I cannot pass."

He stood up and approaches his horse, lifting Bran off of it and carries him to the foot of a nearby weirwood tree before walking back to his horse.

"Then… where will you go?"

"The Great War is coming and I still fight for the living. I'll do what I can… for as long as I can."

Remerging from another one of his visions, Bran shared his last moment with his uncle.

"Thank you, uncle Benjen," he said.

"And to you, Bran. I wish you both good fortune."

With that, Benjen rode away into the forest. Bran looks up at the weirwood tree and starts to crawl towards it. Meera helps him reach it and looks at him.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" she asked doubtfully.

Bran nods. "It is as my uncle said. I'm the Three-Eyed Raven now. I have to be ready for this," he insists.

Touching his hand on the weirwood tree, Bran's eyes go white to finish accelerating the pace of his training—seeing another vision of the past. He had to; for he knew the evil that was coming to Westeros. And he had to be ready. It was his personal task to utilize and perfect his supernatural gifts in the war against the Night King and the White Walkers. It was now or never.

* * *

**In Meereen…**

* * *

Jon Connington stood in the Great Pyramid's throne room – with Daenerys sitting on her throne, flanked by Grey Worm and Missandei as their visitors Yara and Euron Greyjoy have been debating and pleading their cases, though one more direct than the other with a few Unsullied keeping them silent company.

"It's not a matter of debate," Yara interjected. "What my father did shouldn't have harmed the rest of us, but the Oathkeeper did it anyway."

"And he paid the price for it when he brought our people's end on himself," Euron countered with glee. "Be thankful that it was the Oathkeeper who did him in first because I would've done the same – just less colorful."

"You'd knowingly murder my father? Your own brother? Are you insane?!"

"He led us into two wars we couldn't win. And while you sailed around the western coasts back in Westeros, I, on the other hand, have been around the world. I've seen more things than any ironborn living."

Connington interrupted. "Get back to the point, Greyjoy. Why did you come here?" he demanded, not positively predisposed towards the elder.

Euron continued arrogantly gloated. "The moment I was chosen by what was left of our people to lead the Iron Islands, I came home to find nothing but a pile of smoke, ash and rubble. No home, no nothing," he postured. "I'm sure you've already heard what Daveth Baratheon is capable of, so I'd imagine word of the Slave Masters being utterly crushed in one swift stroke has already spread back to the capital. No doubt he's mobilizing his armies right now. To attack you," he pointed to Daenerys. "It's nothing compared to the cruel hardship  _you_  suffered at the hands of a man whose family sought to destroy, from what I hear. But still. It bothers me. Murdering the Oathkeeper and his lackeys would make me feel a lot better. And since it appears that we share a common enemy, I thought we rightful monarchs could murder them together."

Before Euron could start walking up towards the throne, Grey Worm and the Unsullied take a step towards him; Euron stops walking and looks up at the Unsullied commander.

"That's far enough," Grey Worm warned.

Euron smiles wickedly and backs down off the steps. Daenerys, meanwhile, decides to cut to the chase.

"Your niece has already instructed our forces on how to properly sail my fleet once belonged to the former Slave Masters and supplemented by the Golden Company," she begun. "Yet you came here with what remains of the… Iron Fleet, and men to sail them as well. Both of you made your claims and petitions known. In return, I expect you want me to support your claim to the throne of the Iron Islands? Among other things?"

"My father would've wanted me to rule—" Yara began.

"Ah, but the Kingsmoot chose me instead," Euron interrupted. "Succession of the Iron Islands is decided that way. Thought you would've known that by now, my dear niece. Our law is the law. You weren't on the Iron Islands, and yet I still remain the greatest captain on the 14 seas. The place was getting crowded so we'll need room to expand."

Daenerys spoke up. "And what is wrong with the selection process? Is it not the tradition of the Salt Throne that whoever remains as the eldest surviving child of the King of Salt and Rock be next in the line of succession? Has the Iron Islands ever had a Queen before?"

Yara looks at her uncle before looking back up at the Dragon Queen. "No more than Westeros," she replied. "My uncle only came home after a long absence, took advantage of the chaos so he could seek power for himself. Took whatever few resource my homeland had left to promote his own interests."

"You told me that your father was a terrible King."

"You and I have that in common."

"We do. And both murdered by a usurper as well."

Daenerys continued listening; her advisor, Connington, meanwhile, pressed the matter further.

"Last I heard, the Greyjoys rebelled against the Iron Throne for the right to be monarchs not once but twice – both ending in catastrophic failure," he pointed out before turning to Euron. "You, on the other hand, I've heard much about. One exile to another, though I've been here in Essos longer than you were. You spent your days reaving, pillaging and raping all over the known world from Oldtown to even Asshai by the Shadow Lands."

"He came here to offer you his ships, though it isn't all he said he'll bring. My uncle claims he also wants to give you his 'big cock,' I think he said. Euron's offer is also an offer of marriage, you see – not getting one without the other. Which is why you should not negotiate with  _him_ ," she pointed to Euron. "He'll murder you as soon as you have what he wants."

"The Seven Kingdoms," Connington deduced. "All of them."

Now the Dragon Queen was suddenly interested in that last remark. "And I assume you don't want the Seven Kingdoms, Yara?"

She shook her head. "Your ancestor Aegon the Conqueror defeated ours, Harren the Black, and took the Iron Islands. I ask you to give them back and help us murder those who don't think a woman's fit to rule."

Connington remained suspicious, finding such demands ludicrously unsettling. "Such a notion would prove to create a disastrous domino effect for the rest of the Seven Kingdoms House Targaryen conquered and united. What if everyone else starts demanding  _their_  independence as well? Are we to just give it to them willy nilly?"

"She isn't demanding, Lord Connington. She's asking. The others are free to ask as well," Daenerys reminded him. "Both her father and mine were evil men. They both left the world worse than they found it." She redirected her attention towards Euron. "But we won't. As such I must decline your offer, my lord. We're going to leave the world better than we found it, but we cannot make it so by allowing power-hungry, self-serving evil men into our service."

"You don't care about the Iron Islands. They're nothing but rocks and bird shit and a lot of very unattractive people. Well, they used to be," Euron shot. "The Iron Fleet on the other hand— _my_  fleet, that's something else entirely. Refuse my offer and I'll continue owning the seas."

Despite the confidence in himself and the unrefuseability of his offer, Euron met resistance.

" _My_  fleet will help the Dragon Queen defeat the pretenders in the North, Stormlands, Westerlands, Vale and every other region who ruined us all," Yara shot back.

"On this, Queen Daenerys concurs and has made her decision to decline your proposal of an alliance," Connington agreed. "We will negotiate with Lady Yara, not you."

That last bit was a cheap nut shot; a blow to his pride. Euron was not expecting that.

"Why?" he asked. "You know what? Forget I asked. I don't expect you to trust me outright. In my experience, the surest way to a woman's heart is a gift. But should you require a demonstration of my naval forces' superiority, I suppose we'll find out to see whose fleet is better than the other."

Euron nods to her, turns and strides out of the throne room, all brass balls and swagger. Daenerys rose from her throne and felt her nerves twitch.

"Torgo Nudho. (Grey Worm)," she turned to her Unsullied commander. "Lo ziry māzigon naejot vīlībāzma, lo bona vala jiōragon isse se ñuhoso lēda īlva kȳvana syt iā sȳrkta vys, ossēnagon zirȳla ēlī (If it comes to battle, should that man interfere with our plans for a better world, kill him first.)"

"Krenyikhé, ñuha dāria. (Gladly, my Queen)", he nodded.

With that business over and done with, Daenerys redirected her attention towards her newest chief naval commander. "I will help you get the justice you deserve and rebuild the Iron Islands. In return, you will support my claim as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms and respect the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms. That means no more reaving, roving, raiding or raping."

Yara heard this speech before. "That's our way of life," she tried to explain.

The Dragon Queen wasn't buying it. "No more," she said firmly.

Yara and Daenerys look at each other. " _Not anymore._ " Those were the harsh, judgmental words hurled at her when she imprisoned and tried in court after the Second Greyjoy Rebellion after Daveth literally laid waste to the Iron Islands and nearly wiped out every ironborn in his crusade for vengeance.  _"Well, I am truly sorry to disappoint you, Princess, but the integrity of the Seven Kingdoms will be respected._ _From now on, there will be no more reaving and raiding. The Old Ways are done."_  Every night when she was chained up in Deepwood Motte, Yara kept hearing those words in her sleep before breaking out.

Of course the difference was that one was a forceful ultimatum while the other sounded like a firm yet diplomatic request; if not a reasonable one. She soon nods her head and holds out her hand.

"No more," Yara agreed.

Daenerys is not familiar with this gesture, but holds out her hand all the same. Yara clasps the Dragon Queen's forearm with her hand like the tough ironborn she is. Daenerys returns the clasp and tried to maintain her regality in the face of her bemusement.

**—Later that day—**

Connington stood outside his Queen's chambers with his arms folded; overhearing a conversation from the other side held between Daenerys and her lover Daario. Although the sounds were somewhat muffled by the reinforced doors and walls, he could slightly hear it all playing out.

«  _Your ships are ready. I saw them painting the sails. I'm curious to see how the Dothraki do on the poison water._  » the voice belonged to Daario.

«  _You're not coming with us._  » replied Daenerys.

« _New strategy? You want the Second Sons to attack from the west coast? Or the southeast? If we take Casterly Rock and Storm's End, the Baratheons will have nowhere to run when you hit King's Landing._ »

« _You're not going to Westeros. You're staying here with the Second Sons. There's finally peace in Meereen. You will keep the peace as Regent of the Bay of Dragons while the people choose their own leaders. We can't keep calling it Slaver's Bay anymore._ »

The former Lord of Griffin's Roost was intrigued with how the Dragon Queen was attempting to break off her dalliance with her paramour. In his mind, it made sense. In the event should House Targaryen reconquer the Seven Kingdoms like Aegon did 300 years ago, Daenerys will no doubt be required to marry a loyal Westerosi supporter to continue her family's bloodline—the bloodline of Old Valyria. After all, no commoner was a fit consort for a woman of royal birth. No one would accept that.

He could hear Daario getting uptight—apparently not taking the break up well. Although understandable, Connington knew this had to be done; not only to avoid heartache, but also scandal.

« _Bay of Dragons? Fuck Meereen. Fuck the people. I'm here for you, not them._ »

« _You promised me. "My sword is yours. My life is yours." This is what I command. If I'm going to rule in Westeros, I'll need to make alliances. The best way to make alliances is making strategic marriages._ »

« _Who are you marrying this time?_ »

« _I don't know. Maybe no one._ »

« _But you need to lure all the noble houses to the table? Are you a Queen or fish bait?_ »

« _I can't bring a lover to Westeros._ »

« _A King wouldn't think twice about it._ »

« _So that's what you want? To be my mistress?_ »

« _I'm not proud. I don't care what perfumed aristocrat sits beside you in the throne room. I don't want a crown. I want you. I love you, Daenerys. And I make you happy. You know I do. Bring me with you. Let me fight for you._ »

« _I can't, Daario._ »

« _That old Westerosi Connington told you to do this?_ »

« _No one tells me to do anything. The decisions I make are entirely my own._ »

« _Clever old fossil. Intimidating, strategically ruthless… more dangerous than he was when I first met him. Can't argue with his logic. I'm no use to you over there._ »

« _Don't get angry._ »

« _I'm not angry. I'm full of self-pity. Who comes after you? Who can ever follow Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons._ »

« _A great number of women, I imagine. Specific orders will be left for you regarding the welfare of Meereen and the Bay of Dragons._ »

« _You'll get that throne you want so badly, I'm sure of it. I hope it brings you happiness. I pity the lords of Westeros. They have no idea what's coming for them._ »

« _Farewell, Daario Naharis._ »

Connington leaned off the wall and sat off to the side of the room on a bench, waiting until he sees Daenerys emerging from her bedchambers and walked down the steps. She notices him staring at her.

"How much do you hear?" she asks.

"All of it," he answers.

"It's not polite to eavesdrop on other people's conversations, Lord Connington; especially if they're personal ones.  _Private_."

"Regardless, what's done had to be done. That Daario fellow, how did he take it?"

Daenerys shifted somewhat uncomfortably. "No tears," she replied plainly.

"Good."

"Why is that good?"

"Daario is skilled with a blade, but he is a commoner and you royalty; too low birth to be considered an eligible suitor and not fit for a young woman of your station. He would've been a distraction, a liability should you chose to take him with us to Westeros. What matters most now is that you have your armies, you have your ships, and you have your dragons—just as Aegon the Conqueror had 300 years ago. Everything you've ever wanted since you were old enough to want anything. Our enemies know we're coming and will no doubt seek to exploit any opening they could use against you. If you're going to rule the Seven Kingdoms, a monarch will need to make the hard yet necessary decisions. You will find little joy in it, but it needs to be done. Are you afraid?"

Daenerys nods.

"Good. You should be, child. You've taken a big step in the great game: the game of thrones. The only people who aren't afraid of failure are sycophants and madmen."

"Like my father, I know. But do you know what frightens me more?" she asked. "The first is when I said farewell to a man who loves me. A man I thought I cared for, and yet I felt nothing. Nothing. Just impatience to get it over with."

"And the second?"

"The second is that I do sometimes worry that I might end up like my father. Once you told me that madness and greatness are two sides of the same coin when it comes to my family. 'Every time a new Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin, and the world holds its breath to see how it will land.' Tell me, will I end up like that?"

Connington looked at her somewhat confused, but not surprised nor concerned. "It's difficult to say, child. When your father ascended the throne, for instance, he showed great promise in the first 20 years of his reign before spiraling into insanity and paranoia. But madness and greatness depends on the Targaryen and the choices they make. Your older brother, Prince Rhaegar, was fortunately spared of such a fate and demonstrated such greatness. Had he still lived, Rhaegar would've surpassed even the greatest Targaryen Kings. You still remind me of him sometimes the way you carry yourself. Valiant, honorable and noble."

Daenerys smiled sadly. "I wish I could've known him better. The way you describe him makes me sometimes wonder how Rhaegar would've been like today."

"He would've loved you. Spoil you rotten, perhaps, but still." Connington stood up. "We will avenge Rhaegar, your father, your niece Rhaenys, your nephew Aegon… everyone who wronged you terribly. My sword and counsel are yours should you require it."

"Good," the Dragon Queen nodded. "I, um… I had something made for you. I'm not sure if I got the designs right." She held out a makeshift silver pin that symbolized being Hand; a pin Connington himself once held and recognized it. "Lord Jon Connington of Griffin's Roost, I name you Hand of the Queen." Daenerys said as she pins it to him.

Connington kneels and pledges his services to House Targaryen once more as he resumed his Handship, a position he once held before in his younger days during Robert's Rebellion. When he was younger, he was seen as too young, too bold and too eager for glory; the Battle of the Bells proved that Connington at the time was indeed not ready for such responsibilities. Now that he was a different man having spent years in exile – older, more cautious, experienced and dangerous than ever, Connington was patient and learned from his past mistakes. No more being honorable and seeking glory as he did before; Connington would not repeat his failure at the Battle of the Bells again.

**—At the Summer Sea—**

Yara, Qhono, and Captain Strickland were moving about on their respective ships with their troops: ironborn, Dothraki, Unsullied and Golden Company sellswords. Each of them looked out at the sea with the sunset reflecting off the surface. A vessel appears with a dragon as its ram. Grey Worm and the Unsullied ride on it. Behind him hundreds of other ships are sailing around with some carrying the Dothraki and their horses.

True to his word, Captain Strickland and the Golden Company were forced to leave their war elephants behind back in Essos. Above the sellsword company's vessels, Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal fly overhead over the larger ship leading the convoy.

Leading the main fleet, Daenerys, Connington and Missandei stand atop the deck and look out at the oceans ahead—the sound of waves crashing against the ship drowned out by the screeching dragons above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, in one whole day this officially marks the end of Season 6. The next several chapters will begin the start of Season 7 and the war between Daveth Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen. As promised, I'll work to include more battle scenes. So until then be sure to get some drinks, popcorn and sit back for more news. It'll be another battle between the stag and the dragon; both offspring of Kings and will fight each other with everything they've got. Thoughts? Let me know.


	126. The Stage is Set

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daveth issues a proclamation; Daenerys seizes Dragonstone.

**YEAR 304 AC**

**In the war room of King's Landing…**

* * *

Daveth paces the floor of a small courtyard on which a painted mural of Westeros has been done beautifully. He looks down upon it – taking in every detailed structure of the map: every stronghold, lakes, rivers and mountainous terrain… he studied them all. The Young Stag wasn't just donning his royal attire, but rather clad in his black armor—his Valyrian steel sword Stormbringer remained strapped to his waist, tapping the pommel anxiously; all his six years ruling the Seven Kingdoms on the Iron Throne have been spent preparing the entire realm for this inevitable confrontation.

The artisan painter in the corner finishes up what's left of some coastlines along the administrative region of the North; before long the painter looks up at the sound of someone's footsteps approaching and puts away his brushes to give the King some privacy.

"How long are you going to keep staring at that mural, nephew?" approached Tyrion, his uncle and Hand. "You've been quiet these last Small Council meetings."

The Young Stag shook his head. "I've been standing here, looking at this map for… I don't know how long. Has word been sent to Dragonstone?"

"Word has already been sent as quickly as possible. Lord Stannis and the majority of his forces, along with the Royal Fleet, have been forced to evacuate as many as possible. Only Ser Rolland Storm and a small token force will remain behind, though the island itself will still fall. But I'm sure you knew that already. I suppose it doesn't matter now, does it?"

Daveth shook his head. "No. It doesn't matter now," he replied.

Tyrion could sense the barest hint of vulnerability slipping momentarily through Daveth's calm exterior. When he was informed of Daenerys Targaryen sailing her forces to Westeros and of Euron Greyjoy's return, Daveth was quiet. Who could blame him? How could you get ready for something like this? Even he's never faced such a test of this scale. The Young Stag, meanwhile, looked away from his uncle and returned his focus back to the mural as Tommen and Myrcella entered as well.

"Brother," they announced. "We wondered where you were."

Daveth glanced at them from the corner of his right eye, his back still faced to them. Since then, his sister Myrcella had started developing a small bump on her belly. Tommen, in the meanwhile, remained innocent looking despite whatever muscles he was able to develop for his physique.

"This is it… isn't it?" Myrcella imposed.

"Yes, my sweet sister. It is," he answered. "Daenerys Targaryen has chosen Jon Connington to be her Hand. Right now they're sailing across the Narrow Sea at the head of an armada, hoping to take back the Iron Throne. If what Varys' little birds say is true, he'll be leading the Targaryen host. Formulating all her battle plans. Cold, ruthless, calculating. Connington will stop at nothing to secure victory. Like our grandfather, Lord Tywin Lannister. As he did for the Mad King, he now gives his daughter counsel. Uncle Tyrion and I have already determined they'll be landing here on Dragonstone," he points to an eponymous island in the Blackwater Bay hundreds of miles northeast of the capital. "It has deep-water ports for the ships and it's also where she was born 22 years ago. But with Stannis ordering a forced evacuation, both the castle  _and_  the island itself will fall to the Targaryens while the rest of our fleet will be left forming a defensive blockade around the capital until they receive further instructions."

"Do you feel ready, brother?" asks Tommen. "I mean, considering how the maesters are calling this a war to end of all wars. I just hope there's still a Westeros left to protect. And everyone's counting on you to do it for us once again. It must be overwhelming."

_'That would be quite a monumental understatement, Tommen, especially considering there are three full-grown dragons in our enemy's arsenal. The same as her ancestor Aegon when he conquered the Seven Kingdoms,'_ Daveth didn't look at him. "Enemies to the east. Enemies to the west; Euron Greyjoy has declared himself King of what's left of the Iron Islands. His forces have begun harassing the Shield Islands west of the mouth of the Mander. The same man who… ruined my life, slaughtered my friends in front of me at Lannisport as if they were animals, and routinely tortured me for his own amusement for half a year during the First Greyjoy Rebellion when I was a child. No matter how many enemies I face, how many trials and tribulations I've had to endure for fifteen years, there will always be more."

Tyrion interjected. "Well, as your Hand I must remind you to not forget about the allies we already have. The North, Vale, Westerlands, Riverlands, Reach, Stormlands, Dorne… all of them. Don't discount the effect of everything you've done for them. Cajoling with a few threats thrown here and there along with some tremendous self-sacrifice, no one else could have done what you did so quickly. The Seven Kingdoms are one because of  _you_."

"But we worry you sometimes forget of the enormous strain you put on yourself," implored Myrcella. "There's not a single day that goes by where we lose sleep over your state of mind. Maybe it doesn't need to be said; maybe we're too dumb to say it."

"I haven't forgotten it," her brother responded.

"Just don't forget that you also have a wife who worries herself half to death about you. Gods be good, Sansa's the mother of your children."

Daveth shook his head with the thoughts of Sansa. With her pregnancy nearing its end, she would be bedridden until the delivery begins. Whether she'll give birth to a boy or a girl remains to be seen; but with war looming on the horizon, the Young Stag could barely focus—he's been mainly focused on fighting both Daenerys and Euron on two fronts. Sighing deeply, Daveth turns and walks to a nearby table and pours himself a glass of wine.

"I'm well aware of my wife's quality of mind and character, 'Cella. I still find myself surprised at the realization that I had settled down and started a family of my own. I had grown quite fond of them; which is why I will never stop fighting no matter the odds or whoever gets in my way."

Even while under pressure, the Young Stag's determination and willpower continue to drive him forward. In the pit of his stomach, though, he did sometimes wonder if what the Seven Kingdoms has to confront Daenerys might be enough or not. Just then Trystane arrived in the courtyard, wrapping one arm around Myrcella's waist.

"Your Grace, I've gathered the lords and ladies as you requested," he informed him. "They're waiting for you in the throne room."

"I see; time to begin the first phase then."

"'First phase'?" implored Tyrion.

"You'll see soon enough."

**—In the throne room—**

The throne room was gathered with a large assembly of people; Daveth sat on the Iron Throne. Tyrion and the other royal councilors stand at each side beside the King. Myrcella and Tommen were there too. Everyone of importance who is currently present in King's Landing all listen intently as Daveth speaks.

"I'm sure you're all wondering why you're here, my lords and ladies. You all know who is closing in on our shores. Daenerys Targaryen has come and we must be ready. The Crown is requesting that every maester to begin scouring their records on the history of dragons dating back to the War of Conquest as well as the Dance of Dragons. Until then, the Crown will institute a draft throughout every corner of the Seven Kingdoms to supplement our armies. Every able-bodied volunteer aged 15-60 will practice daily with swords, spears, pikes, bow and arrow. Our top military commanders will oversee their training personally and ensure they are well-trained, armed and disciplined. Ready for what's to come."

Murmurs began whispering through the halls; some uttering exclamations of a draft, other veterans nodded in agreement. It was wartime after all—and some measures needed to be taken.

"About bloody time," one lord concurred.

"We'll show these boys how to properly fight a war," another agreed.

"A draft? Don't you think 15 is a bit too young for our boys to be soldiers?" one lady voiced her concerns.

"My son…"

_'It's still…'_  the Young Stag. "…not enough," he uttered quietly under his breath. "Not just the men, but also the women. If we're to ever make it through this war in one piece, my lords and ladies, we must acknowledge that our nation cannot simultaneously stave off a foe of this magnitude and utilize its full potential if only  _half_  the population is fighting. Such a tactical error proved a grave mistake when Aegon the Conqueror laid waste to Westeros."

Now the backlash began however brief it was.

"Hold on! You expect us to put a spear in our daughter's and granddaughter's hands—?" grumbled a lord.

Reina Fishport quickly cut him off. "So you'd rather sit by the fire and do nothing while the rest of us do the hard work? Well I got news for you, my lord: I may be a woman, but I've got no intention of knitting while men fight for me and I'm every bit of Westerosi as you."

He quickly fumbled on his own words at the commoner-turned-noble chewed him out. "No one is questioning—"

"Oh, but you just did. And I certainly don't need your permission to defend our home," she looked up at the King. "Summerhall will begin training every man,  _woman_ , boy and  _girl_. We'll show the Targaryens that a united Westeros won't go down that easily without a fight."

_'Clever girl, Reina. Sometimes it takes another to show us the truths we hide from ourselves.'_  Daveth nodded as the grumbles died down. "In the meantime, we need to shore up our city's defenses and fleet's capabilities with long-range artillery weapons. Our newly improvised scorpions will be mounted on the walls, battlements and watchtowers; the same goes with our naval forces. Only together will the sons and daughters of Westeros not only defend our country, but usher in a new generation… with all of you as its forefathers."

The crowd starts cheering and applauding. Once the audience was removed, they were all alone. Tyrion, Myrcella and Tommen look at each other in somewhat concern as Daveth did not sit back down.

"Mind explaining to me about what it is you just said, nephew? Men and women soldiers?" Tyrion whispered. "15 to 60 years old—"

"I know what you're going to say, uncle," he cut him off. "You handle diplomatic affairs, I'll deal with military. Each fills in the gaps of the other. The draft is only temporary until the war is over. Do you have any faith in me at all?"

Myrcella quietly chimed in. "Don't say that, brother. You know we do," she insisted.

"I'm sure you must have your reasons, but…" Tommen piped up.

"I know."

Tyrion sipped his wine. "And what of Euron Greyjoy? Surely you've noticed it's not one-on-one, but a three-way free-for-all."

Daveth glanced at his feet in silence. He began tapping the pommel of his blade again and felt his skin beginning to feel a slight itch.

"Daveth?" his sister pressed.

The Young Stag somewhat hesitated; the mere mention of his old tormentor's name twisted in stomach in knots, sent chills running up and down his spine as well as his heart beating a few ticks faster.

"You don't know him. I do," he shook his head.

"Then help us understand," Tyrion suggested. "If the man frightens you this much, then we need to know everything about him. Tell us so we can figure out how to beat him."

He inhaled and exhaled shakily. "Daenerys and her dragons may seem like our biggest threat, but take it from me: Euron Greyjoy is a vicious bastard. He's worse than Joffrey and Ramsay combined; wildly unpredictable, relentless, cruel, intensely sadistic and an utter psychopath… yet is fearless and highly intelligent, capable of long-term strategies with the skills needed to back it up; pure, unrestrained evil—a person with no ounce of remorse and finds sheer joy and pleasure in doing what he does. Once Euron gets a hold of you he…" Daveth momentarily pauses, still bearing the psychological scars of his past. "…he won't just torture you for his own amusement. He'll subject you to far worse… like he did to me."

"Like what?" asked Tommen.

Daveth gripped his arms more tightly. "I'd rather not say. Reopening old wounds isn't going to help anyone," he declined.

"I'll send word to Lord Redwyne in the Arbor. With any luck, his fleet should be able to—"

"It's  _not_  enough. Euron's a genius when it comes to naval warfare – more so than Victarion. Underestimate him or make even the slightest mistake only one time and it's all over." Daveth noticed his siblings staring at him intently. "I… I need to go. I need some air."

"O-of course, brother," Tommen nodded understandably.

"Just stop by Sansa and your kids," Myrcella suggested.

"I will."

Daveth descended the steps of the throne—accompanied by his Kingsguard. Upon pushing each door open, the Young Stag moved to steady his anxiety. War was coming to Westeros; dragons, Unsullied, Dothraki… and Euron Greyjoy. Each was more deadly than the other, though to Daveth he considered Euron the most dangerous of them all. Clenching his fist into a tight ball, Daveth turned to ascend the steps of Maegor's Holdfast. He needed some relief and comfort before throwing himself into the thick of war again.

"'Ours is the Fury'," he silently told himself. "Father, Ned… Lord Arryn, give me the strength, guidance and wisdom to make it through this. We'll need every ounce of it. These are rather perilous times."

* * *

**Near Dragonstone…**

* * *

Daenerys gazes intently out towards the island of Dragonstone. Having already dispatched four to five row boats that have already gone on ahead of her, she watched from the shorelines as she saw a pile of bodies being thrown onto the sand. Her Hand of the Queen Jon Connington was already ordering the men to begin preparations for the arrival of their rightful monarch. Behind her were the sails of her armada – red dragons on a black field.

_'Home,'_  she thought dreamily.  _'I'm finally home.'_

Sitting alongside Daenerys are Missandei, Grey Worm and Captain Strickland. She stands at the bow of their rowboat before pulling at the oars, bringing them closer and closer to shore. Above them Drogon, Rhaegal and Viserion fly lover over Daenerys' head, screeching out in excitement. The three dragons soar over the island, its beaches, cliffs and the castle itself. It's an awe-inducing sight—a reminiscent of her ancestor Aegon the Conqueror and his sister-wives Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen arriving at this very island over 300 years ago.

The significance of this moment is written all over her face. Connington, meanwhile, was rather cautious. He stared down at the lifeless bodies—all of them donned the House Baratheon of Dragonstone armor along with the stag enclosed in a fiery red heart sigil.

"Mmm. Something's not right. I expected us to face a heavy resistance," he pondered.

"Somethin' wrong, my Lord Hand?" asked Ser Myles the Blackheart, an exiled knight of House Toyne and Golden Company captain-general. Despite his fearsome reputation, he was good friends with Connington.

"Huh. The scouts report was grossly inaccurate. There were 50 of Stannis Baratheon's garrison stationed here not 300 and the Royal Fleet was nowhere to be seen," he examined the island's surroundings.

"Meaning?"

"Stannis isn't here nor is the fleet at anchor. This could only mean that the Usurper's boy probably knows we're here."

"Probably 'cause he knows we've got dragons and a large army, eh? Probably not wanting this place to be like another Harrenhal?" Myles gloated.

_'If you know anything, the Baratheons don't run from a fight and are exceptionally powerful warriors. Robert made sure I knew that fact personally at the Battle of the Bells. In fact, they take a time to analyze the situation and weigh their options before making their move. Regardless, with Dragonstone under our control it does give us a strategic advantage in this area: we have a harbor to anchor our ships and gives us access to the entrance of both the Blackwater Rush and King's Landing itself, cutting off access. An obvious route for an invasion, but I'm sure that's what this new Baratheon is aware of. We'll need to acquire more information first.'_  Connington theorized. "Have the ships anchor at the harbor and send a message to the noble houses of the Narrow Sea. Inform them House Targaryen now controls Dragonstone. Bend the knee to Queen Daenerys and they can keep their lands and titles. Refuse, however, and they will be met with fire and blood."

Ser Myles huffed and complied, leaving Connington alone on the beach to wave over the rowboats. The one carrying Daenerys lands on the sandy beach first; the Dragon Queen climbs out and onto solid ground. She walks slowly up the beach, soaking it all in. Grey Worm, Missandei and Captain Strickland allow her to have a moment before they too disembark.

Daenerys' boots leave footprints in the damp sand before she enters the shadow of Dragonstone's cliffs and lowers herself to one knee. She reaches a hand down and slowly pressures her bare palm against the ground; a simple gesture.

"Welcome back to Dragonstone, Your Grace," Connington greeted her. "This is where your origins began. Here, on this island at that fortress 22 years ago. It was also where your ancestors landed before the Doom of Valyria."

"And where me and Viserys were absconded to safety to the Free Cities," she mused, leaving a handprint in the sand and rubbing the damp sand between her fingers. "But this refuge can also be a reminder that life starts anew."

Daenerys stands up and resumes walking with her contingency of Unsullied, Dothraki and Golden Company sellswords following after her. Daenerys approaches a great iron gate, just up from the beach. The gate is flanked by huge stone dragon's heads. She halts, staring up at it. Two of her Unsullied continue past her and push upon the gate's massive doors which slowly swung open, revealing a long winding stone stairway, and beyond it - the castle of Dragonstone. The Dragon Queen gazes up at it for a long, poignant moment. It's her birthplace, her stronghold, her home. She walks up and through the gate.

Daenerys, Connington, Missandei, Grey Worm and Captain Strickland walk through the gates and up the walkway before entering the foyer. The island fortress feels dim inside after the bright sunlight outside. As they make their way through the corridors, Daenerys stumbles upon a tapestry bearing the stag sigil in a fiery red heart of Stannis's House Baratheon of Dragonstone. She pauses and looks up at it before reading out and giving it a hard yank, watching it slump to the floor.

"More of the Usurper's blood defiling my ancestors' legacy and filling its halls with their stench," the Dragon Queen remarked with a sense of disgust.

She leaves the banner in a heap and walks toward a set of tall ornate doors while her Unsullied open the doors, revealing Dragonstone's impressive audience chamber. The Lord of Dragonstone's seat stares from the far end of the audience chamber; although not the Iron Throne, it is quite grand in its own right—hewn from the raw living rock that the island itself is made of. Shafts of light illuminate it from the audience chamber's tall narrow windows. It a seat fit for a King, or a Khaleesi.

Daenerys walks down the length of the audience chamber and approaches the lord's seat, ascending the steps to her throne and gazes upon it. Her eye line shifts slightly, continuing past it and passes through a door leading into the Chamber of the Painted Table itself.

The great table that Aegon the Conqueror commissioned dominates the room.

Daenerys walks slowly up the length of the table, running her fingers over its coastlines – the nation she believes she was meant to rule. Connington follows after her in solemn silence, gazing up at the carved dragon reliefs that decorate the walls.

Finally, the Dragon Queen stops at the far end and turns around, casting her gaze over the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.

"Shall we begin?" she motioned.

Connington nodded and turned towards the company spymaster. "Lysono," he begun, "dispatch your spies to learn what we can learn of our foes. Captain Strickland, while we acquire more information, have the Golden Company flex its muscles for a while. Once we're ready, we can begin."

Daenerys observed her generals discussing battle plans for their invasion of Westeros. A thundering boom run in the distance outside; the Dragon Queen glanced out the window to see storm clouds approaching Dragonstone fast.

"A storm is brewing," she mused. "I always thought this would be a homecoming. It doesn't feel like home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well guys, we've officially dove into the first chapter of Season 7 with Daveth Baratheon and Daenerys Targaryen overseeing preparations for battle. A private conversation with Daveth and Tyrion revealed that they basically told Stannis to give up Dragonstone with the royalist naval forces and come to King's Landing before they enemy hit them. In the first moment we get the sense that the Oathkeeper might have a bit of a PTSD flashback when discussing Euron Greyjoy with his family, but I'll let you guys figure that part out for yourselves. Makes him feel human, vulnerable. Meanwhile, Jon Connington has a Tywin moment after arriving on Dragonstone ahead of Daenerys. Think he'll be the brains behind Daenerys' military operations when their armies clash? Thoughts? Let me know.


End file.
